


Heart of the Phoenix

by Kylenne



Series: Tales of the Illidari Compact [3]
Category: Warcraft, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Canon, Angst, F/M, Gen, Headcanon, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Slash, Smut, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-18
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2017-10-23 20:14:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 89,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kylenne/pseuds/Kylenne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lich King's domain has long been feared as a frozen hell of death and despair. However, for the Sun Prince of the Sin'dorei and the one whom legend and infamy calls The Betrayer, it is only the beginning of an extraordinary future fraught with peril, loss, and triumph. Can a new life and a new purpose rise from the ashes of defeat?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Matter of Trust

"We shall send these fiends back to Arthas in pieces!"

Illidan Stormrage's voice echoed above the din of the fierce battle which raged across the frozen wasteland of the Dragonblight. Kael'thas was racing behind his master, barely able to keep up with the half-demon's bursts of preternatural speed while hurling arcane fire at the undead at every turn. There was a full two score of them, raining shadowy fire and at times even corpses upon the Blood Elf base, but the gifted mage and his demon hunter master were making quick work of them, flashing warglaives and arcane fury at any that would stand against them. Kael had never felt so invincible--nay, so alive! At his Master's side, nothing would stand before his might! At last, they seemed to cut through the entirety of the force. Or so the Prince of the Sin'dorei thought.

"Master!" Kael shouted in alarm, when a gargoyle came hurtling down from atop a nearby cliff, darting toward the demon hunter. Enraged, the Elf snapped his arm in the creature's direction and chanted quickly, sending twisting pillars of flame from the palm of his hand, and incinerated the beast. It dropped to crumbling, smoking rubble before Illidan's feet, and he turned back to briefly smile at Kael.

"Well done, my young prince," he almost purred at the mage, and Kael flashed a wicked grin, filled with pride. Before Kael could react, however, his master's expression turned grim in a flash, and Illidan vaulted over him, casting a great shadow with his sprawling wings. What followed was a quick succession of unseen blows followed by a sickening crunching sound. Kael spun around to see him standing over the desiccated corpse of an undead fiend, its head cleanly severed some yards away. "Don't let your guard down," Illidan growled while rolling a broad, muscled shoulder. "I would rather have you in one piece when we reach the traitor prince."

"Yes, Master," Kael replied somewhat sheepishly.

"Your Highness!" a voice suddenly called out, and Kael turned to see one of his battle medics, a young priestess of the House Dawnhaven, running towards them. She saluted crisply, then kneeled before them. "Our scouts have at last located Arthas' trail. He's heading toward a pass in the cliffs to the north, with a large force of the Lich King's cultists, and in the company of some sort of great, monstrous spider."

Kael furrowed his brow, deep in thought, pondering the priestess' words. "A new ally, then...perhaps one with an alternative path to the glacier. Excellent work, Lady Leilatha. Assemble your war priests, and--"

"Wait, Kael," Illidan cut him off, raising an eyebrow in the air. "Perhaps Arthas has found a new path to Icecrown--or perhaps he is laying a trap. We can ill afford to leave this pass unguarded. Remain here, my prince, and re-fortify the base. I will see to the bastard prince of Lordaeron myself."

"But, Master--" Kael could feel the anger and impatience rising within him. He was not about to leave that bastard human to Illidan. Not after everything he had done to Quel'thalas, to the Sunwell, to Kael's people--

"Kael." And Illidan's voice was softer, sympathetic. It washed over Kael like a comforting blanket, and seemed to dissipate his irritation as quickly as it arose. "I do not want to risk the possibility that Arthas is trying to lure our forces out for the slaughter, and we have lost too many soldiers in this wilderness as it stands."

"I understand the importance of this base, Master, and what it means to our supply lines, but with all due respect, we don't have time for this," Kael argued, in a resolute but courteous manner. "We cannot allow Arthas to reach the Frozen Throne--you said this yourself. The longer we delay, the longer it will take for us to catch up with him."

"Your zeal is commendable, as always, my prince," Illidan began, "but vengeance will only be yours if you do what I say. Your people will not prosper with their beloved prince killed in a meaningless ambush, or worse, a thrall of the Lich King. Vashj now controls the waterways, and that will purchase you enough time. I will send word when I am ready for you to strike."

Kael sighed in defeat, and silently dismissed the messenger. Illidan's reasoning was sound, of course, and he could not argue with it. Arthas was too cunning to be underestimated, even with his growing weakness. However, Kael was still a man of action--and more importantly, Illidan's self-proclaimed right hand. The thought of cowering within the Sin'dorei base while his master was in danger was maddening. There was little other choice, however.

As always, Illidan seemed to see right into Kael's heart. He thrust one of his massive warglaives into the snow, and placed the now-free hand on the Elven prince's shoulder in a sympathetic gesture, his lips curling into one of those handsome, slight smiles that made Kael so weak in the knees. The emerald-tinged fire that burned in his unnatural fel eyes seemed to burn a bit brighter, then, peeking through the blindfold. "Your trust in me has not been misplaced as of yet, has it? Have I as yet led you astray?"

"...no, Master. It hasn't. And you have not." Kael sighed again.

"Then give me your trust once more, Kael'thas Sunstrider," Illidan pressed. "Let me make certain this is not a ruse. If it isn't, I swear to you, together we will avenge your precious Quel'thalas, and then cast down that thrice-damned specter once and for all." His voice was firm, but once again using that quiet, half-purring tone. Kael wondered why he never threw his weight around with him, the way he did with the naga, and why Illidan seemed to have this need for Kael to not simply follow him blindly but _believe_ in him, the way Vashj did. The Master's words rang true in the Elf's long, pointed ears, and steeled his heart against any fear. Illidan quite often had that effect upon him.

"Your will be done, Master," Kael declared, his own eyes hard and determined. "I would burn the length and breadth of sky for you--" And Kael stopped, worried when his heart rose into his throat that he might say something he would regret. That he would let the beautiful demon that had been haunting his dreams since first he set foot in Outland know that his fealty was not simply born of obligation to his own people's well-being, and that his fears for him had little to do with the mission itself. Illidan simply could not know. There was too much at stake, here. Particularly, now.

"Thank you, Kael," Illidan murmured in a tone so quiet, Kael barely heard him speak. To the prince's great shock and amazement, that firm, clawed hand moved from his shoulder to rest briefly upon his fair, frost-kissed cheek. Kael gasped, so surprised he was by the sudden sensation, and closed his eyes to steady himself.

When he opened them, Illidan Stormrage was gone, leaving only burning hoofprints in the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place during _The Frozen Throne's_ Scourge Campaign, specifically as Arthas is making his way to the entrance of Azjol-Nerub. Obviously, we didn't have a name for that region of Northrend at the time of WC3:TFT, but I feel fairly confident pegging it as Dragonblight, since that's where the only player-accessible entrance to Azjol-Nerub is in _Wrath of the Lich King_ , and the geography looks fairly similar. If there's a problem with that, take it up with my rules lawyer.


	2. At the Brink

Some few hours after Illidan's departure from the Sin'dorei camp, Kael'thas paced anxiously inside the Arcane Sanctum, his fears growing more uncharacteristically paranoid with every passing moment. It simply wasn't like him to be this agitated; his skin was clammy and unusually pale, and he felt as though his heart would burst out of his chest.

For all his adult life, Kael had always been the consummate commander and tactician. He was always extremely confident in his ability to lead, and perhaps more importantly, defer to the wisdom of others when necessary for the greater good--from his time as a member of Dalaran's shadowy Council of Six, to conferring with his own lieutenants to act in the best interest of the Sin'dorei once it was clear the so-called Alliance had abandoned them to fate. What on earth was it about Northrend, this situation, that was driving him to such ill-favored distraction?

It was not as though Kael felt him capable of treachery toward his people, despite his admittedly checkered past. Why could he not simply trust that his master knew what he was doing, after all that had happened? Of course, that question was hypothetical--the answer was obvious to anyone who was paying attention, much less an archmage as singularly astute as Kael'thas Sunstrider. Quite simply, he was letting his romantic feelings for Illidan cloud his judgment. He was not afraid that Illidan was lying to him, or meant to deny him his chance at revenge against the man who was responsible for the destruction of his kingdom and his people's malady. Kael was afraid that Illidan, a man he'd grown to love more than anyone else in his life, was going to die out there, and he would never see him again. Logically speaking, that was a positively ridiculous notion, of course. Illidan Stormrage was over ten-thousand years old, was the most feared demon hunter to ever walk the face of Azeroth, had stood down and usurped a pit fiend of his residence, and Light knew what else.

The Elven prince sighed and reached for the bottle of pinot noir that rested on the table before him, but then hesitated and drew his hand away. How much longer could this stand, truly? They were not even halfway to the Frozen Throne. Surely the danger would only grow from here. Kael would grow mad if he did not find a way to keep his emotions in check, and soon--because the only alternative, admitting his feelings to his master, was absolutely out of the question. Not only was it wholly inappropriate, and not remotely the time or place for such sentiment, but Kael flinched from what he felt would be the inevitable result of such a confession. It pained him even now to think of it, to even acknowledge as a passing thought the very stark reality that his love for Illidan would forever be an unrequited one. He was not about to go through that again, not after what happened with Jaina Proudmoore.

Vashj's words from the Black Temple still stung his heart, all the more so because he knew very well that she spoke the unmitigated truth. There was no doubt in Kael's mind that Illidan was incapable of returning his love, that his master's heart still belonged to Lady Tyrande after all these countless years. Better that Kael suffer and Illidan never confirm that truth with his own words. This constant, gnawing trepidation he felt was infinitely preferable to the crushing despair that would cause in Kael. The ridiculous melancholy that overcame him when Jaina spurned him in favor of Arthas would pale in the face of Illidan's rejection, and that was not something any of them needed right now. Particularly with this entire expedition--and likely Illidan's very life--resting on their shoulders.

Kael vigorously shook his head, as if to clear it of all this maudlin nonsense. He was Commander here, and his soldiers needed him. He gathered his wits and stepped outside the Sanctum to take stock of the situation. His engineers, as equally skilled with the hammer as with the spell, had all but repaired the breaches to the watch towers made by the Scourge's ghastly siege engines. The priests were quick at work tending to the few Elves that were wounded in the battle. As he passed through the camp, their faces shone with defiance and determination, even as their eyes dimmed in that tell-tale sign of arcane withdrawal. Truthfully, he himself was beginning to grow ill again, because he'd had little opportunity to siphon mana from the fel crystals he kept in his personal belongings. Kael was turning toward his private pavilion to do just that, when he saw a pair of his runners returning to the base.

"Prince Kael'thas!"

A pair of Farstriders were sprinting toward the base, their faces grim. Kael met them at the edge of the camp and returned their salutes.

"What is going on, rangers?" Kael demanded.

"It's Arthas, my liege!" The lead ranger, a svelte blonde woman, gestured toward the horizon. "He has slain a mighty servant of the Blue Dragonflight and raised him through the Lich King's eldritch power to serve his will!" Kael's eyes grew wide and he grabbed the ranger by her shoulders, his fingers grasping the leather armor as though he were afraid she would run away without answering the one question that plagued him.

"What news of Lord Stormrage?" Kael's voice shot up an octave, the panic within it barely contained.

"He--my Prince, as we speak, he makes for the northern pass," the ranger answered, clearly startled by his suddenly crazed demeanor. Her partner, a lanky, crimson-haired male with a prominent dragonhawk tattoo on his arm, leaned in, placing a comforting hand upon the small of her back.

"My Prince, we overheard the spider lord speaking of a vast network of tunnels deep beneath the earth, where his kingdom once stood. Lord Stormrage believes Arthas seeks these tunnels as a shortcut to Icecrown, and the Throne," the male Farstrider elaborated. "The Master is moving to guard the entrance to that passage. Lady Vashj's naga have already blockaded the waterways to cut off their vessels."

Kael reached back in his memories, to his studies in Dalaran, and a single name came to him out of the pages of the Kirin Tor histories: that of the ancient kingdom of the Nerubians of which this "spider lord" was clearly one. "Azjol-Nerub..." he muttered absently. A steely resolve came over him, and his emerald eyes narrowed to near-slits. The fretting, lovesick fool was gone and the steadfast military genius had taken his place. Mercifully so.

"Get your men over there!" the Prince barked, following a long string of colorful oaths in Thalassian. Kael's initial instincts had proven correct, and now Illidan's sudden, baffling insistence on caution was about to cost him his life. He tore away from the scouts and immediately began shouting orders to his troops. "To me, Blood Mages! Engineers, I want those glaive throwers moved--now! By the Light and the Nether, we must defend that pass! That motherless bastard must not be allowed to break through our blockade!"

Kael's sense of urgency was not lost on any of his soldiers. The mages quickly opened portals and sent the engines--the slowest moving of their forces--on ahead. The others carried out his commands with no less brutal efficiency, and within the span of only a few moments nearly the entire Sin'dorei force was marching toward the ravine which led to Azjol-Nerub, with only a token force left to hold the base. It was a gamble, but one Kael was forced to take--if Arthas broke through to Azjol-Nerub, those tunnels could potentially leave him on Ner'zhul's doorstep, and then it would not matter if one solitary base still stood.

They raced as fast as possible, Kael and his sorcerers and spellbreakers jumping far out in front due to the arcane power they commanded. It was of no concern to him. He had to get to Illidan before Arthas, or worse--that accursed--

And then he heard it: an ethereal, otherworldly cry of unfathomable rage, and it was as though it threatened to split apart the very skies above them. Kael's hands instinctively flew to his Elven ears to protect them, sensitive as they were. That was no banshee. His soldiers sent up the cry, taking to arms:

Frost wyrm.

It was a massive creature whose flesh had rotted away entirely, leaving only a gargantuan skeleton bathed in an eerie sapphire light. It rose up from the depths of the ravine to the east, bringing with it what seemed to be an endless horde of ghouls and eldritch re-animated horrors. Some were haphazardly stitched together from random corpses, others were banshees that wore the faces of Quel'thalas' numerous dead. All were scenes out of nightmare. The wyrm cried out its challenge to the Sin'dorei once more, and took to skeletal wing.

Adrenaline rushing through his veins, Kael's hand went to the golden hilt of his longsword, the gorgeous heirloom once wielded by the greatest of his ancestors and passed down as a symbol of his House's authority. As he slid it from its jeweled sheath at his belt, it immediately leapt into burning arcane flame. Raising it defiantly into the air, he cried out his response.

"Bash'a no falor talah!" Kael screamed, and charged into battle.

Pillars of flame shot forth from behind him, arcing skyward to blast the wyrm. The Farstriders loosed their enchanted arrows after them at a signal from their commander. Those were followed by the dragonhawk riders, darting to and fro to engage the diving gargoyles in aerial dogfights before turning on the great wyrm.

Back on the ground, Kael cut a burning path through the shambling ghouls, his fiery sword carving through them as though they were simple rag dolls. He turned to face an abomination that was lumbering toward him with exceptional speed, and when the disgusting thing swung its enormous grappling hook at him to yank him forward, Kael spun with the effortless grace of a fencer, easily dodging the clumsy blow. He used his flaming sword as a conductor for his arcane energy, and brought it down in a single sharp movement, slicing open the creature's stitching until all manner of worms and larvae poured out, and with a final shudder it fell apart into its component parts. All around him, the Sin'dorei spellbreakers and assorted knights were making easy work of the Scourge and human cultists in close range. Once it was clear they had the ground battle well in hand, Kael gestured broadly with his sword in the direction of the Nerubian pass.

"Go, my brothers and sisters! Join Lord Illidan's blockade, and avenge your children upon Arthas!"

With a mighty cry in response, they moved on, thundering to the north.

When Kael looked up at the sky to gauge the aerial battle, it also seemed to be going well--with one notable exception. Though the banshees and gargoyles seemed to be mostly vanquished, there was still the problem of the frost wyrm. The rangers and blood mages were doing enough to keep it distracted, but they just could not seem to penetrate the creature's defenses. It dove and spun suddenly, then reared back and released a broad cone of frost from its gaping maw, taking out an entire regiment of mages.

Kael knew what he had to do, he could not risk any further casualties. He quickly and purposefully began to etch a swirling sigil into the snow with his sword, comprised of ancient Highborne runes and intricate spirals. To the untrained eye, it could have appeared that he was engaged in some sort of intricate sword dance, spinning and twirling, flames coiling about his limbs like serpents. When he was finished, he grasped the hilt of the blade with both hands and raised it to the sky.

"Al'ar, great Goddess of the Phoenixes, House Sunstrider summons and stirs thee! I command thee to aid in my battle this day! May thou cleanse the miasma of death from this land with thy fires of rebirth!"

Kael slammed his sword into the center of the sigil, setting it aflame upon the surface of the snow. A fiery whirlwind engulfed him, and the spell was cast into the heavens. Descending from the sky in a great ball of flame, the mighty phoenix swept across the battlefield leaving burning death in its wake. It lowered dangerously close to the frozen ground, and when it glided close to Kael, he leapt on its back and rode the great beast right in the direction of the frost wyrm.

Weaving his sword in spiraling patterns, Kael engaged the undead horror in single combat. He guided Al'ar to the creature's hindquarters, blasting it again and again with arcane fire, then dove beneath it to dodge a sweep of its tail. When he attempted a thrust of his blade between the wyrm's ribs, his sword felt as though it hit a stone wall, and was easily repulsed. Kael would need to find a weak spot, and quickly. Spiraling on the phoenix, he emerged upon the monster's left, opposite flank. Wait--the archmage blinked, finding what he was looking for. Triumphantly, he raised his arms and began chanting another fire spell, this time aiming for the large, sapphire orb encased inside the skeleton. Now, the cursed thing would be finished!

A sudden wave of dizziness slammed into Kael as soon as he released the flames from his fingertips. Though they indeed made their mark, sending the wyrm into a great cry of pain, he would not be able to see it, because with that magical fire went the last of Kael's energy. The withdrawal symptoms had worsened with the sheer amount of energy he was expending in the battle, and now it had rendered him helpless. He swooned, his brain and his body consumed by unfathomable hunger, and Al'ar--no longer able to hold her form with her master faltering--began to fade into dying embers and dissipate into the cold winter air.

Then Kael began to fall.

The last thing the Prince of the Sin'dorei remembered, the last sensation he felt, was the cold creeping up his ankles, inching up his legs and easing across his body like a cresting wave. It was, unbearable, unnatural, this cold, and when it reached his face it felt as though it was suffocating him. Utterly spent and deep in the grip of magic withdrawal, Kael'thas could not even scream or cry out for aid.

Silently, he prayed that Illidan would not be the one to find his corpse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize certain artistic liberties were taken with fight mechanics. I tend to do that in Warcraft stories. Also, Al'ar will forever be female to me, sorry if that's jarring.


	3. Wrath of the Betrayer

They should have been here by now.

Illidan scowled, taking his frustration out on an unfortunate ghoul that lunged toward him. Without looking back or even flinching, he slammed his fist into the thing's skull, backhanding it into the nearby cliffside effortlessly with his preternatural strength. His senses, honed to a deadly degree by his Demon Hunter's training as well as from his mundane eyes being burned from the sockets, were far beyond those of an ordinary Night Elf. All around him was the stench of death, but Illidan could distinguish a thousand variations on that theme. He heard the tell-tale hissing and sensed the dark energy of two more minor Scourge coming at him. Leaping, spinning a graceful arc in the air, Illidan whirled his warglaives like some mad dervish until the undead creatures were little more than a spray of rotting flesh and unholy black ichor. It was too easy for words.

The wretched fools who dared tempt his wrath were the last thing on his mind at the moment, however. Again, his unnatural eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of that familiar energy signature, and still there was nothing. Where the bloody hell were the Sin'dorei? Illidan had sent for them it seemed an eternity ago, and it simply wasn't like Kael to be so undependable. There were many reasons the self-proclaimed Lord of Outland had chosen him as his right hand, but above all Kael was tremendously loyal and reliable. Something wasn't right here, and it concerned Illidan deeply.

No matter. He had no doubt that Kael would arrive and join the battle any moment now. In the meantime, Illidan would show these curs his true power; it was not as if he could not hold this ground himself. He pressed on, beating back the Scourge forces through sheer force of his own power and indomitable will. They fell like chaff under his blades and before the power of his fel magic.

Some moments later, as he wrenched a warglaive free from the lacerated corpse of a human cultist, Illidan's highly sensitive ears heard the roar of the frost wyrm, followed by cries of dragonhawks in the distance, and battle oaths shouted in Thalassian.

Ah, he's here, Illidan thought. Fortuitous timing, that. Even Illidan was not willing to tempt fate by his lonesome against a re-animated servant of Malygos the Spellweaver.

Whatever lingering irritation Illidan felt at Kael's tardiness was gone when he witnessed that golden streak of fire charging into the fray. The Prince of the Sin'dorei was proving Illidan's faith in him to be wholly justified. Even as Illidan was annihilating the undead that stood against him, he watched the twisting coils of arcane energy burning across the sky with a certain amount of pride in his prized lieutenant. Indeed, Kael was truly magnificent to behold in battle, all precision and savage beauty, his magic as elegant as it was brutal. He cut the undead down as though it were child's play; it all looked so effortless the way he dispatched them with flame and blade. _This_ was the power of a true Highborne, Illidan thought proudly, his heart racing from the excitement of it all. There were few who bore that legacy with as much grace and finesse as the last son of House Sunstrider. That fate conspired to bring them together was something Illidan was tremendously grateful for.

A banshee attempted to take him by surprise, shooting bolts of spectral lightning at him, and Illidan just smirked. He quickly pivoted and crossed his warglaives before him to create a shield, easily deflecting the energy before engulfing the spirit in demonic fire. Turning back toward Kael's men, it appeared that some of them were joining his naga at the blockade. Excellent. Just as he was about to fall back to their position, Illidan felt a tremendous rush of magical energy released in the distance, a cresting wave of scorching heat that left shimmering ripples on the horizon. He laughed at that, a sinister sound filled with dark anticipation and, oddly enough, a slight undercurrent of relief.

Kael was full of such wonderful tricks.

The Demon Hunter turned his back to the emergent phoenix, his attention fully engrossed by the human necromancer raising a pack of axe-wielding skeletons headed his way. How utterly foolish. Contemptuously, he beheaded three of them in a sweeping gesture of a single warglaive, then tucked and rolled to gut their summoner. Several sprung from the ground in their place, and again Illidan destroyed them. They were just wasting his time, now.

And then he understood why, what twisted logic Arthas had employed. Illidan understood why he was lured here. And he understood it when the faintest of cries pierced his ears.

... _Master_...

It was unmistakably Kael. Illidan looked back sharply, his unnatural eyes widening in horror as he saw the Sun Prince's bright, solar fire flaring out in a blaze of glory, as though he was a literal sun that exploded into nothingness. Sapphiron was mortally wounded and retreating, but that was not what Illidan cared about. Kael was falling away from the fleeing wyrm, the mighty phoenix vanished, and he was--no. _No_.

Not my _thero'shan_.

For the briefest of moments, Illidan was detached, looking with frozen bemusement at the sudden rush of emotion that was beginning to overtake him. It was a strange moment of pure lucidity where he wondered why the hell he was feeling this way, and where the hell this sense of...regret came from. Yes, it was regret, and a great sorrow. Illidan was aware of his impulsive nature, that he was a man of great passions. But this startled and even frightened him a bit, the sheer power of this...grief. The moment passed as quickly as he acknowledged it.

Then the dam broke.

It was as though all the pain, all the bitterness of ten-thousand years of unjust confinement, the betrayal and scorn of his people and the woman he loved, every terrible emotion that Illidan had ever felt came crashing down on him at once, as quickly as his golden prince was careening from the sky. But it didn't stop there. Illidan Stormrage would for once in his wretched life know _justice_ , he would know _vengeance_ , and all would finally know what it meant to wrong him.

It grew within him, the fel power of the Skull of Gul'dan which infused his veins, building to a dark crescendo until he threatened to burst. With an utterly inhuman, wordless roar of anger and grief, Illidan gave himself wholly over to the demonic monster within, leaving any physical trace of the Kaldorei demon hunter that remained to wither in the face of that primordial taint awakening within him. His skin brightened and hardened, its pale, ash-violet turning to a dark, rich purple. The ever-present warglaives faded, the essence of their power absorbed into his claws. Shrouded in a shadowy nimbus, he was fully the demon now, in every sense of the word and filled with absolute, unholy rage.

His great, leathery wings flared when he raised his massive claws into fists, engulfing himself in an aura of demonic fire. A single word echoed from his lips in a voice that only in the loosest sense resembled his own, a cry of loss as heart-wrenching as it was utterly terrifying:

" _Kael'thas!_ "

Illidan did not run so much as glide across the broken battlefield; time seemed to slow down. He was only tangentially aware of his claws sweeping upward to violently tear the abomination's head in a single fluid motion, and the sickening smell of its melting flesh against his burning nimbus. A sweeping gesture of his arm and fire rained from the sky, a jerking gesture of his head and something impaled itself on his horns--he was not even certain what it was. Everything was as a blur of shadow and fire and abject fury. The sheer destruction he left in his wake was incalculable, as he made his way to where Kael lay. And then he came upon the theatre where it all happened.

The remaining Blood Elves were outnumbered, set upon by yet another regiment of undead, and unable to reach their fallen prince. A trio of necromancers swooped in on Kael's body like vultures, already beginning their unholy rites. However, even in Illidan's battle haze, he recognized that incantation. He'd heard it performed by the Nathrezim in their experiments so long ago, amongst the rubble of Zin-Azshari.

The human mongrels intended to make Kael a lich.

However, as incensed as Illidan was at the thought, he was suddenly shaken out of his demonic rage and gained some kind of lucidity back. Lesser sorcerers were ignorant to the fact that the kind of magic involved in such an act had to be worked while the candidate was still alive. Surely Arthas' lackeys knew that. Which meant Kael was still, in fact, alive.

Illidan immediately set to work, fighting his way through the lesser Scourge that was swarming, and reached the cultists just as they were attempting to finish the preparation spell and load Kael into one of their ghastly wagons made of human flesh.

"I believe that belongs to me," Illidan snarled. With quick, successive gestures of his claws, he set the black-cowled trio alight, then snatched up Kael's weakened body and fled.

Half-running, half-gliding across the smoking snowfield, he clutched Kael tightly against him in a vice grip. Illidan could sense that the Elf had been drained entirely of his magic. For ones such as they, deep in the grip of arcane addiction, it would have been a better fate to have been drained of one's life blood. If Illidan did not get him energy, and soon, Kael would be forever lost to him. A plan formulated in his mind, but first he needed to find a place of concentrated power.

Fortunately, this region seemed to be filled with such points of power. Were it not for the pressing urgency of Kil'jaeden's mission, Illidan would have been eager to remain and study them. Of course, saving his own hide was a bit more important at the moment. He let his magic-attuned eyes and senses guide him across the snowfield, drawn across a hidden lay line.

"Master?" Kael shuddered weakly, clearly disoriented. Illidan remembered that Kael had never seen him in pure demonic form before, wielding the full powers of the Skull's energies.

"Yes, it's me," Illidan reassured him softly, but Kael had already slipped back into unconsciousness. Swearing to himself, Illidan pressed on, until the ground became colder, more solidified, and the snowbank opened out into a ravine. It appeared the earth itself had split apart at some point in the distant past, and the resulting trench was composed entirely of softly glowing, crystalline ice. Illidan leapt down into it, his massive wings acting as a sort of parachute to break his fall. Moving quickly from ledge to ledge, he at last reached a cave entrance on the floor. Still clinging to Kael, he raced inside to find the lay line's terminus.

Illidan only hoped that he was not too late.


	4. A Kind of Magic

Kael's eyes slowly flickered open, and he awakened to find himself laying flat on his back in a small cave. There was a small fire burning in a pit nearby, but when he tried to sit up and warm himself, his body simply wouldn't respond. It wasn't that he was necessarily in pain, however--he was simply weak. So confoundedly weak that he could not even will himself to turn his head and examine his strange surroundings. Where was this place? Kael vaguely remembered the fight with the frost wyrm, but little else. He sighed a bit in frustration.

"Our sleeping prince awakens. Welcome back."

It was the voice of his master, his voice only half-filled with sarcasm. Illidan sat on the opposite side of the fire, his back resting against the cave wall, resting an arm upon his raised knee.

"Master," Kael mumbled in confusion. "Where...are we?"

"Somewhere that I can help you," Illidan replied.

"What? I--don't understand."

"You've almost entirely exhausted the magic inside yourself," Illidan explained, rising to his feet. "If you don't receive an infusion of power, you may die."

Kael blinked, startled by the severity of the situation. He'd never heard of such a thing before--of course, he'd also never heard of anyone becoming addicted to magic in the first place, and it was perfectly clear how that turned out.

"How...?" Kael gasped. Illidan crouched down beside him, and to Kael's astonishment, gently swept a lock of golden hair from his brow and rested a hand upon it.

"This cave is pulsating with magic. Surely you can feel it?" Illidan asked. However, it was perhaps the wrong time to ask such a thing of Kael. The only thing that he could feel just then was the warmth and tenderness of his master's touch, and it was driving him to absolute distraction.

"I..." Kael sort of stammered, and the telltale hint of red began to creep into his cheeks. Try as he may, he simply couldn't concentrate. There was something in the way Illidan touched him, a softness there, that made Kael feel even weaker.

"Perhaps it's worse than I imagined," Illidan said, frowning. "Can you move at all?" Kael pressed his hands against the cavern floor, to attempt to boost himself up, but failed.

"I can't," he answered.

"Very well. Try to hold on, if you can."

Then Illidan bent forward slightly, and the next thing Kael knew, he was being lifted up off the floor, and scooped up into the demon hunter's massive, powerful arms, as though he weighed nothing at all. His master took an unbelievable amount of care in doing so, clutching him tightly, and Kael's heart skipped a beat. There was no describing the security in such a feeling; he felt as though nothing in the world could harm him at that very moment.

Rising to his feet, Illidan carried him a short distance across the cave. It was then that Kael could see the entire place was sheathed in a beautiful, crystalline ice. The walls shimmered in tones of sparkling azure blue, and then Kael suddenly understood what Illidan was talking about. The cavern buzzed with pure arcane power; the very air itself was thick with it, filling the room with a soft, blue haze. As they passed through it, Kael was already beginning to feel a little better.

They stopped at the edge of a large pool saturated in that same blue glow, steam rising from its surface, being fed from a font pouring out of the icy rock. It seemed as though it were some sort of natural hot spring that had been altered somehow, changed by the raw magic in the air to the point where the power was even more greatly concentrated within it. Illidan stepped slowly into, the water only reaching to about his shins, and crouched down once more, Kael still in hand.

"I...want to try something. Tap into the spring, if you can," Illidan suggested. Kael nodded weakly and let his hand brush against the surface of the water. Concentrating deeply upon the flows of power within it, he attempted to extract the energy out...but nothing. He could not even do so simple a thing. He swore a particularly nasty invective in Thalassian, then clenched his jaw.

"I've never been this...useless in my life."

"Be still," Illidan said sharply. "You are far from useless, young Kael. Simply wounded. But I will fix that."

Kael stared in bemusement at him, as he gently took Kael's hand from the water, grasping it tightly, stroking it with his thumb. By the Light, his touch was so calming, the prince thought. Suddenly, however, Illidan guided the hand to his bare, powerfully built chest, to rest upon one of the Eredun tattoos etched into his pectorals. Oddly, Kael could feel his heart beating, and it was pounding as quickly as his own. What was his master about?

"Take my magic," Illidan whispered, urging him in the most seductive voice Kael had ever heard in his life. "Feed from me, Kael. Make my power your own."

"What?" Kael balked, so taken aback by the strange command that he lost all conception that he was speaking to the man whom he'd sworn absolute allegiance to. It was an unbelievably reckless thing to suggest--and, were Kael completely honest with himself, so very typically Illidan. His master was not always the most rational sort. "I could kill you."

"Do you take me for a fool, Kael? Why do you think I brought you to this place, to enjoy the scenery?" Illidan scoffed. "This cave is filled to bursting with arcane energy. It will sustain me as you feed."

"But this is madness, Master--"

"Do you wish to wither and die, bereft of the very thing that sustains you?"

"Of course not."

"Then feed," Illidan said again, his tone almost oddly pleading. He tilted his head, stroking Kael's hand again with a thumb. "Please, my _thero'shan_. Allow me to do this small thing for you."

Kael's heart skipped a beat at the old Darnassian word, a term imbued with such meaning and spoken with such heart-filled sentiment that he could have sworn he imagined it. Did he truly mean that much to Illidan? Kael, Archmage of the Kirin Tor, who was like a novice to Illidan's ancient, preternatural eyes--was he truly the beloved student he strove so hard to be for him? He stared up at Illidan, so darkly handsome in the soft cobalt light, swirls of energy dancing around his horns like fireflies, the expression upon his face tender and filled with concern. Perhaps there was even affection in that beautiful face, though Kael firmly believed that was wishful thinking on his part. But he couldn't deny the tenderness with which Illidan held him, the soothing feel of his touch, and the temptation was almost unbearable. To tap into his master's very own demonic power, to share that part of him when it was offered so freely...it was so seductive an idea, so enticing.

"...if you insist," Kael whispered in response. He spread his fingers wide upon the tattoo, feeling with not only his mundane sense of touch but with his arcane senses as well. By the Nether...Illidan was like a walking reservoir of fel energy. Kael had never felt any creature, not even the magic-rich imps of Outland, with as much concentrated power as Illidan. It called to him, this enormous power, with a siren's song of temptation that spoke directly to the ravenous hunger inside him.

Closing his eyes, Kael reached out to that power, drawing it out with his will. He heard Illidan gasp sharply then, and he immediately opened his eyes in alarm, worried that he may have caused him some kind of pain. Illidan made one of those half-smiles at him. "I'm fine. I simply wasn't expecting such a sensation. Continue, by all means."

Kael nodded, and began the process anew. As the fel magic slowly leeched out of Illidan and traveled through Kael's fingertips, coiling up his arm, an undeniably pleasant tingle crept up his spine. Already, he could feel the life returning to his limbs, his body. His spirit was growing lighter. The slow trickle was not enough, however, and only made Kael crave more. Shifting slightly in Illidan's arms, he brought up his other hand to place it against the other tattoo on his chest. And then Kael drained his magic in earnest.

The moan that escaped Illidan's lips was intoxicating. It wasn't pain the demon hunter was feeling, not at all. Something entirely more pleasant than that, and it was apparent from the hot breath upon his brow becoming more labored with every passing moment. Kael's own breath became heavy, his eyes half closed, lips parted slightly. Illidan pulled him so tightly against him, cradling him with trembling hands, that Kael was pressed against his own hands. The Elven prince could feel his body--and Illidan's--quicken with excitement, in every sense of the word.

The intimacy of the moment threatened to overwhelm Kael. As Illidan's energy coursed through his veins, it burned like liquid flame, and his entire body felt as though it were on fire. Quickening him with his own life force, Kael gave himself over entirely to the sensation, his spirit soaring to heights of near-delirium. Fully recovered now, feeling more alive and powerful than he'd ever been, Kael should have ceased the draining but he couldn't, it wasn't enough, ye gods it would never be enough...

Illidan's powerful hands clawed their way up his back, and Kael moaned softly, losing his concentration entirely, severing the arcane connection, and the font of power abruptly closed. He scarcely noticed, however, because it was at that moment that Illidan's fingers became tangled in his golden hair, his lips were parted, and his master slipped his tongue inside his mouth to kiss him deeply. The hunger in that kiss, the passion loosed within it, was very nearly unbearable.

"Master..." Kael breathed, thinking quite seriously for a moment that he was dreaming again, that Illidan could not have possibly done what he thought he just did. For his part, Illidan merely gave him another enigmatic smile, and ran his fingers through his long, tangled hair.

"Yes, my prince?"

"I don't understand." And it was the honest truth.

"But must you?" Illidan said in a hushed tone. "What is there to understand? Is this not the proof of what I want?"

As if to emphasize his point, Illidan kissed him again, with even more urgency than the first time, and Kael would have tipped over had he not been cradled so tightly. Though every instinct said otherwise, Kael pulled away from the kiss, and turned away from him. "But..." and the sentence trailed off somewhat helplessly, as Kael was suddenly terribly afraid of what he would say next. But what about Tyrande, but this isn't enough for me no matter how good it feels, but your body will never be enough for me, because--

"I'm in love with you, Illidan."

The sentence escaped his throat before Kael could even realize he uttered it. And it occurred to him that in the deepest recesses of his heart, he did not think of Illidan as "Master". There was no longer Master and Servant in this cave, not the Lord of Outland and the Prince of the Sin'dorei. There were simply two men entangled in each other's arms, drawn and held together by something far greater than themselves.

"Kael'thas," Illidan whispered softly, and Kael felt as though he could hear him say it a thousand times and never grow tired of it. Illidan lightly trailed a clawed finger across his jaw line, then firmly turned his chin so that Kael would face him again. "Do you think I didn't know?"

Kael's eyes grew wide in shock and embarrassment. "You...knew?"

"Your words and actions betray you more than you realize," Illidan answered. "I am not as blind as you think I am."

Of course, Kael thought. Why wouldn't he have known? In Kael's pride, he'd forgotten how old and cunning the demon hunter was, and he'd rather foolishly underestimated him. Kael suddenly felt quite sheepish. However, there was no escaping the next logical question. It would eventually crop up sooner or later.

"What does this mean, then?" Kael asked him. "Am I simply being a fool for feeling the way I do?"

"A fair question," Illidan acknowledged, resting his palm on Kael's cheek. "But you are no fool, my Kael. Perhaps, if you are, then I am the greater one."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that perhaps I have clung to the bitterness of the past for far too long," Illidan admitted. "That I believed I my unfortunate tendency toward maudlin sentimentality would be the end of me. It may, as yet. But I can no longer deny or second guess myself, not after what happened on that battlefield. I cannot deny that when I believed you slain by Sapphiron, I nearly lost my mind."

It was a long, silent moment that hung in the azure haze, Kael not knowing how to respond to Illidan laying his soul bare. He never did, because seeing this larger-than-life figure from infamy and legend become so vulnerable was still startling, even now, no matter how many times he'd seen it before.

How many times? Was it really that...yes, it was. Why hadn't he seen this, before? It struck Kael that this was not the first time Illidan had opened himself up to him in such a fashion. He'd done it almost from the moment they met; there was something about Kael that made Illidan feel that he could tell him anything. And he never did that for _anyone_ , not even Vashj had seen this quiet, brooding side of their shared master. To the others, Illidan had never presented himself as anything less than the powerful Lord of Outland. Only Kael had ever seen the wounded man that lay buried deep beneath that facade.

"But, what of Lady Tyrande?" Kael said softly. Illidan hunched down to rest his cheek upon the crown of Kael's head, almost clinging to him as though he were afraid he was going to slip through his hands.

"There is a part of me that will always love Tyrande," Illidan replied, the pain still evident in his voice, in the reverent way he spoke her name. "To say that I could ever forget her...that is something I cannot do. But I can tell you, my Kael, that this love I feel for you burns inside me brighter than your precious Sunwell. You have stolen a heart I no longer thought I had or wanted to give to another."

The sensation he felt when he was absorbing Illidan's magic was absolutely nothing compared to what Kael was feeling then, at that moment, when his master spoke those passionate words. Every ridiculous daydream, every seemingly unattainable fantasy he'd had was coming true.

"Illidan." It was all Kael could say, imbued with every emotion he was overcome with.

" _Dalah'surfal_ ," Illidan purred in response, teasing Kael's long, pointed ear with a languid stroke of a finger.

And then there was another kiss, but this time it was Kael, wrapping his arms around Illidan's neck, pushing up against him with a fury and an urgency that seemed to startle him.

"Are honeyed words all you have left, Master?" Kael's voice was thick with lust.

"Not at all."

Illidan's hands began to wander down the torn, scarlet robes Kael wore, finding the eye-hooks which bound them together with ease, and he knew then that this was no dream. In but a moment's time, he was shrugging the heavy runecloth garments off, stripped to his snug-fitting, elaborately embroidered vest and leggings.

"How many blasted clothes do you Sin'dorei fops _wear_ ," Illidan grumbled. Kael laughed sensuously, twirling a lock of Illidan's raven-black hair around his hand.

"Enough that we may go about our daily business unmolested by Kaldorei ne'er-do-wells," Kael answered with a grin. Illidan swatted him playfully--but sharply--on the bottom at that. It was not an entirely unpleasant feeling.

"I am still your master, Kael," Illidan chided him, raising a playful eyebrow. The prince lowered his eyes in a mocking show of submissiveness.

"Yes, Lord Illidan," he snickered, smirking up at him. Keeping a straight face was entirely out of the question at this point.

"I'll wipe that smirk off your face," Illidan threatened, and Kael could have sworn he saw a dark flicker behind the blindfold. The demon hunter released the silk ribbons tying Kael's vest together and caressed the skin beneath, raising him up by the waist to cover it in a dozen kisses. His touch was far softer than Kael could have ever imagined, and his pants grew even tighter and more uncomfortable with every stroke of Illidan's tongue.

Kael moved slightly, bringing up a leg to straddle Illidan's lap. What awaited him when he did so was absolutely remarkable. Kael would have been lying if he claimed he'd never taken notice of his master's...attributes, before, but to rest against him, up close and personal, was something else entirely. "My love..." Kael gasped, all traces of casual mockery gone from his demeanor. Illidan was far more enormous than he thought, and harder than the rock of the cave floor.

Illidan laughed, a dark and lustful rumbling, and pulled Kael's hair to force his head back. Being manhandled in such a manner was not something Kael typically went for, but Illidan...yes. Gods, yes. Subconsciously he began to grind slowly into him. In response, Illidan leaned forward and did nothing so much as attack his neck, kissing it, thrashing his tongue against his pale skin, and gently biting the sensitive ear again. Kael thought he may well be brought over just by that sensation alone.

"Is that what you desire, Kael?" Illidan whispered into his ear, then nibbled on it again.

"I...desire you, Master." And to show how much he meant it, Kael slid his hands into Illidan's loose-fitting trousers, stroking his massive cock. The half-demon groaned, and bit his lip, driving Kael into an even deeper state of arousal. With each caress of his fingers across the shaft, it seemed to grow inexplicably harder.

"Is that so," Illidan moaned through grit teeth. Kael felt a hand slip into the back of his pants to squeeze his rear, hard, and it was all too clear what his lover wanted. He winced when he felt a claw brush against his opening, but relaxed when it slid inside him. Kael gripped Illidan's cock tighter, grinding his own against it through his silk trousers. He had never been aroused in his life, never had he felt this sort of desperate need before.

"Take me, Master," Kael quietly pleaded. Illidan grinned lasciviously, but said nothing in reply, merely sliding another finger inside Kael to drive him even wilder. He'd done this enough to know that Illidan had a practical reason for doing such a thing beyond merely teasing him, and though he'd never been penetrated by a man quite as large as Illidan before, Kael was growing impatient with him.

"You seem anxious, love," Illidan gently teased him. Kael scowled.

"I'm no doe-eyed virgin in need of tender care," he growled.

"Of course," Illidan purred. "But I sincerely doubt those delicate little Sin'dorei boys have filled you the way I'm about to. And I'm certain you've never been fucked by them the way I'm going to fuck you."

"You certainly know how to thrill a man," Kael said, chuckling softly. He concentrated on the flows of mana within himself, and muttered a quick little cantrip that had served him quite well on many such occasions. When he chanted the last syllable, with a nonchalant twirl of his finger, the opening that Illidan was so eagerly working with his fingers was coated thoroughly in a clear, slick liquid.

"I know your Kirin Tor masters didn't teach you that," Illidan snickered. Kael shrugged at him.

"My youth in Dalaran was not spent entirely in their libraries," he confessed with a naughty little smile. "And I had many...instructors."

Illidan roughly shifted Kael, manhandling him to get his remaining clothes off, and with a quick, agile series of maneuvers, Kael did just that. He helped Illidan out of his own pants, then squatted back down. Straddling Illidan's lap once more, he was all slender Elven beauty, androgynous but undeniably masculine with broad shoulders and the toned musculature of a dancer.

"I'm surprised you got anything productive done at all," Illidan said, licking his lips as he ran his eager hands across Kael's lithe, slender body. "So beautiful."

"Thank you, Master," Kael sighed in pleasure at his touch, blushing a bit. Of course, it was far from the first time he'd been complimented on his looks, but it meant so much more coming from Illidan. Kissing him deeply once more, his master lifted Kael up effortlessly with one hand, while the other spread him open again.

"Don't thank me until I'm finished." And then Illidan eased the tip of his cock against Kael's slickened opening. The Sin'dorei reached back to help guide him, all the while repeating his cantrip to coat the massive thing in the same liquid as it inched into him.

The feeling of Illidan penetrating him was indescribable. Kael let out a groan as it inched slowly inside of him, he'd never felt such a sensation of pain before, and it was absolutely as intoxicating as the magic he'd taken from his master earlier. The length alone was remarkable, but coupled with his girth, Kael thought Illidan might well split him apart--if he could even take him all at once. But Kael's passions were so inflamed, he was determined to do so, and damn the consequences.

For Illidan's part, he was quite clearly exercising an incredible degree of self-restraint. He paused about halfway through, stroking Kael's inner thighs.

"More, damn you..." Kael grunted, impatient.

"More?" Illidan growled, sharply spanking Kael's ass again. "I'll give you more, you insolent whelp." He quite suddenly shoved the rest of his cock into him, and sheathed himself entirely within him.

"Master!" Kael cried out from the sudden sensation, exquisite pain melting into unspeakable pleasure. Yes, that's the way, he thought as he eased back onto Illidan's lap. His master pulled him tightly against his chest, and kissed his neck ravenously, working his way across his collar bone. Enfolded in those massive wings, Kael reached down to take his own painfully hard cock in hand, stroking it for some kind of relief, but Illidan slapped his ass once more, stinging harder than the last time.

"Who am I, boy?" Illidan snarled, a little more of his demonic nature leaking out into his tone. He took a handful of the Blood Elf's long, blonde hair and yanked it hard, so that his neck was bared once more.

"Master," Kael breathed, with a soft cry of pleasure. A sinister smile crossed Illidan's lips, and then he gripped Kael's waist so tightly that his claws dug into his hips and threatened to draw blood.

"Do not ever forget that," Illidan growled. " And do not forget that every inch of you belongs to me." When Kael obediently let go of himself, Illidan proceeded to thrust his hips slowly, slamming himself into Kael with each jerking motion. All the lithe Elf could do was hold onto him for dear life as the speed increased, because he was entirely helpless in Illidan's embrace. Truly, he would have it no other way.

Illidan snarled and grunted with every thrust, pounding Kael harder and faster, his claws drawing blood from his hips in earnest now. But Kael felt nothing but absolute pleasure as Illidan ravaged him with his massive cock. It was more wonderful than he could have ever imagined in his wildest fantasies.

Without warning, Illidan yanked Kael's hair again, this time forcing him to arch his back so far that his head was nearly touching the water. With characteristic Sin'dorei grace, Kael shifted his weight, effortlessly resting a leg upon Illidan's powerfully muscled shoulder. What followed, however, even Kael did not see coming. Leaning forward, using his own Kaldorei dexterity, Illidan bent down and slid Kael's cock completely into his mouth, even as he continued to thrust his own into him, without missing a stroke. Kael moaned, tingles of pleasure shooting up his spine at the competing sensations.

"Gods, Illidan!" he moaned deliriously, his eyes rolling back in his head as Illidan suckled and pounded him in a smooth, seamless rhythm. He reached down to grab the demon's twisting, curling horns, and gripped them tightly as he was ravaged at both ends. It was an exquisitely pleasing exercise in contrasts; on the one, the soft, moist tongue sliding back and forth across the shaft of his cock, Illidan's surprisingly soft lips drawing him entirely into a mouth full of wonderful heat. On the other, he was being ridden for all he was worth, pounded mercilessly by Illidan's monstrous size. It blended into a harmony of feeling that Kael could not even entirely process.

After what seemed like an eternity of that symphony of sensation, Kael could take no more. His body stiffened when Illidan brought him over, back flying straight up to arch even more impossibly. His incoherent Thalassian screams echoed off the icy walls of the cavern, and he shot his seed so hard into his lover's eagerly awaiting mouth that he saw spots.

Utterly unable to breathe, Kael felt just as helpless as he had when he was drained from the battle. This feeling, however, this utter bliss, was far more preferable to the former. His eyes fluttered open to see Illidan casually swallowing the evidence of that bliss, and his master almost looked as though he was ready to join him simply from the taste of it. However, he was not so easily sated.

Growling, his eyes burning with dark emerald fire so intense they shone entirely through his blindfold, Illidan pulled out of Kael abruptly. Without saying a word, he roughly flipped Kael onto his stomach, then jerked him up onto his hands and knees. Kael's wealth of long, thick golden hair was dripping wet and clinging to the small of his back, but Illidan simply flipped it out of the way. He viciously rammed back into Kael, who winced, still tender from his climax. Illidan pounded him ferociously with his cock, not taking even the slight care he previously used. Kael's heart was pounding, and he dug his fingers into the rock at the edge of the spring somewhat futilely for support. He'd long heard stories of Kaldorei insatiability, but largely believed them to be slander on the part of the ever-prudish Humans (who, of course, knew nothing of the fact that his own people were that way). Not so, and Illidan seemed hellbent on proving that. Kael could feel his own blood begin to race southward again, and idly began to stroke himself. It was when Illidan grabbed his hair once more, however, and yanked his head back to take a long, languid lick of his ear, that Kael was fully engaged once more.

This time Illidan was too distracted to stop him from taking matters into his own hands, so to speak. As his master rode him with newfound ferocity, Kael jerked himself, moaning in renewed pleasure. Then, suddenly, Illidan roared, a guttural cry that was not the least bit Kaldorei, and quickly pulled out of Kael. His wings flared, and he took his cock into a clawed hand, he shuddered and groaned, shooting all over Kael's back, then flipped him over to come on his stomach. It was as though with that one, final act, Illidan was forever marking his territory.

It was that sight of Illidan looming over him completely overwhelmed by lust, that feeling of being utterly dominated by the man he loved--a man of incomparable power--that sent Kael over the edge for a second time. His own seed spilled out into the water in an arcing stream, with a final blissful sigh.

Kael lay there in the shallow water for a long moment, unable to move and not really caring if he ever did again. Idly, he watched tendrils of his hair fan out and float upon the water. Illidan smiled at him, then bent down to lay beside him. It was a long and silent moment they spent side by side, but then Kael rolled over to rest his head upon Illidan's broad chest. A wing enfolded on them both, when Illidan wrapped an arm about him, and smiled.

"Did I break you?" he teased. Kael chuckled, and shook his head as much as he could.

"I don't believe so. But walking may prove to be a minor issue," Kael quipped, with a wry grin. Illidan kissed the top of his head, and laughed at him.

"We can always say it was the Scourge that got you. It may be an easier explanation for Vashj's priestesses."

"I think so--wait, what _do_ we tell Vashj?" Kael suddenly frowned. She was bound to ask questions about their sudden absence.

"That...is entirely up to you, my love, and what you are comfortable with. I have absolutely nothing to hide, but if you think it better that she not know, for the sake of your friendship..." Illidan shrugged.

"I think...I would rather just lay here with you and think about it later."

"As would I," Illidan agreed. "Unfortunately, that is not really an option now, as you well know. There is too much to be done."

Kael sighed, because he knew his master was right. Already he could feel the weight of his responsibilities shifting back onto his shoulders, as he turned his thoughts back to his soldiers. Did they make a clean retreat? How many had perished? Was the blockade successful? A million questions rose in his mind, and while his personal happiness had never been greater...that brief respite, that time of rest where he was simply Kael making love to the man he cared for...that was over. Now it was time for him to become Prince Kael'thas once more, last son of House Sunstrider, Lord and Commander of the Sin'dorei. Illidan, too, would have to turn from him to once again assume the mantle of the dread Lord of Outland. He already saw his lover steeling himself to return to the front, and if Kael thought about it any longer, melancholy would set in, and Kael was never one to wallow in self-pity.

Simply put, they both had a mission to complete.

It did not take very long to get cleaned up and re-clothed. Though Kael was in fact as sore as he'd ever been in his life, he had no problem following Illidan out of the cave. Illidan raised his hand as if to conjure a portal, but paused, and turned back to him.

"What is it, Master?" Kael asked.

"I..." Illidan started, with uncharacteristic reticence. He stopped to gather his thoughts, and then continued. "I want you to know that what happened in there...that was not merely a matter of lust."

"I know."

"We enter dangerous territory from here on, Kael. And I want you to know that, if you will it, there will be a thousand more times such as that, for as long as you wish it so. I will never forsake you, Kael'thas Sunstrider. Never. Remember that always, no matter what manner of horrors Arthas sends our way, no matter what we may find when we reach Icecrown."

And Illidan pulled him into a fierce embrace, enfolding him in his wings.

"I will protect you, always," Illidan whispered fiercely. Kael returned the embrace, and reached up to kiss him.

"I would die for you, Illidan."

"...let us pray it does not come to that."


	5. Postmortem

Perhaps it was the wind that made the bitter cold that much more unbearable. Kael's fingers clung to the hem of his massive Sin'dorei cloak, seeking some manner of protection against that terrible arctic wind as he trudged with singular purpose through the freshly fallen snow. The biting nature of that cold was not simple a consequence of walking on the roof of the world, either; perhaps those naive and untouched by such sensations would know no better, but Kael'thas Sunstrider knew all too well the meaning of this wind. This was no mere winter's chill, not in this icy, desolate wasteland. This was the chill of the grave, tempered by the decrepit scent of ancient, malevolent decay. It was the same ill wind that swept across his beloved Quel'Thalas, and it sunk into the Sin'dorei Prince's very bones. Even the hellfires of broken Draenor were preferable to this. Still, Kael soldiered on, despite the growing palsy of his hands proving increasingly unable to hold onto his cape. It was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment, however.

They'd all thought it was suicide, those few that remained. No one, not even the Master, could have survived such an onslaught. The fear and doubt in their eyes was apparent; they did not want to lose their Prince, not now, not when they had lost everything, and certainly not to a fool's mission. Kael, however, was steadfast: the survivors were to depart--to either Quel'thalas or Draenor as they chose--and he would send word of his safe return. They obeyed his command, returning to the Naga vessels, even as their hearts trembled with dread.

Only one remained with him: the woman who'd been at his side every step of the way, to whom he and all his people owed so much. She was not about to abandon him, either one of them, to this terrible wasteland. And Kael could think of no one else he'd rather have at his side in this, than the Lady Vashj.

"We will find him," she'd said simply, cunning serpentine eyes narrowed and filled with determination to rival his own. And so they walked, searching through the still-smoking battlefield for any sign, any faint trail or indication that Illidan Stormrage yet lived. They picked their way through through the wreckage, two small, insignificant figures against a backdrop of unspeakable horror: corpses both fresh and twice-formed, burned and rotting, molding bones, blood and viscera as far as the eye could see: Naga, Elf, Scourge. The stench was as unbearable as the cold; the air reeked of smoking flesh and decay. All around them, there was that disgusting taint, seeping out of the frozen earth like a festering wound. And always, ever present and oppressive as the shadows that hung above them shrouding the midnight sun, was that cold.

Kael paid none of it any heed. He was a soldier, after all. And nothing here, even in this frozen realm of nightmare, could compare to the horrors he witnessed within the ancient and storied walls of glorious Silvermoon. Fallen, broken Silvermoon, whose gleaming streets ran red with the blood of men, women, and children. The fortunate ones, those. How many of these rotting bags of flesh strewn about the snowbank like discarded rag dolls were once Sin'dorei, he wondered? Did they finally know peace?

He followed Vashj as she slithered past the northernmost of the obelisks that marked the theatre of their ultimate defeat, where the bulk of the Illidari forces had fallen. Towering into the sky, the runes carved into the stones still glowed with that eerie, pale blue light. Kael ran a hand along the cold stone of one, his jaw clenched in bitterness, frustration at his own failure. Illidan's hands had traced these runes, it was by his magic that they had been activated, the Gate to the Frozen Throne itself flung wide open. Illidan had accomplished it by his own power, and all they'd had to do was walk through it to destroy the Throne and Ner'zhul with it. But they had failed. They had failed to hold these obelisks, and it was that failure that, ultimately allowed Arthas to claim the very artifact they'd sought to destroy in the name of his accursed master.

It was that failure that led Kael's master, his lover and savior, to fall stricken in the snow.

For a moment--a long, agonizing moment--Kael contemplated it. He stared at the gate, still active, seductive in its siren's call. And Vashj stared at him curiously, her forked tongue flickering as if to ask what on earth he was about. With a final caress of the glowing stone, of the claw marks from Illidan's own hand, Kael clenched his fist and pounded it once in a futile gesture of grief and frustration, his jaw locked into silence. Even through the rage he felt, anger at his own failure and the renewed fires of burning hatred he felt for Arthas, reason prevailed within Kael. Nothing would be gained by going through that portal. Absolutely nothing. Only death lay at the foot of that throne, now that it was likely no longer empty.

No. Kael would not challenge Arthas, not now. Vengeance would be his another day. There was a far more important task at hand, more important to him even than cutting down the traitorous human cur that had taken everything from him that he held dear. For one thing that he cherished still remained--one person. That was something Kael believed steadfastly in the deepest recesses of his heart. And he had to find him. He would not let him die in this wretched place. He could not.

There, some yards away, one of the massive Warglaives of Azzinoth was strewn half-buried in the glacial drift. "Vashj!" Kael hissed urgently, and the Naga commander's reptilian eyes grew wide.

"He is near," she concurred with his unspoken thought. Without hesitation, the cold suddenly meaningless to him, Kael ran through the snow to the discarded weapon's resting place, his eyes alert and darting to and fro for any sign--

His blindfold. Tattered and caught upon a broken Naga myrmidon's spear, it fluttered in the breeze. Kael's heart soared as he snatched it up and turned. Surely, he must be--

There, still and silent as the dead that surrounded them, the unconscious, battered form of Illidan Stormrage lay in a pool of already congealing blood. His long, raven hair fanned out about him, loosed from the high Kaldorei tail he customarily wore it in.

" _Illidan!_ " Kael screamed, oblivious to the way his stricken voice echoed and carried across the glacier. He cared not if Scourge remnants were alerted to their presence; in fact, he dared it. Racing to Illidan's side, Kael collapsed to his knees in the drift and immediately took the stricken half-demon into his arms, cradling his lifeless body, straining with all the keenness of his Elven ears for any sign of life within him.

A heartbeat. Torturously slow and faint, but it was there. And there--his breath visible in the cold. He was alive. By the Light and Shadow, Illidan was alive!

"Is he..." Vashj whispered in almost a reverent tone.

"Alive," Kael replied, and immediately his fingers went for the heavy gold clasp at his throat. He unfastened it and shrugged off the heavy cape he always wore, shifting in the snow so that Vashj could take it. Together, they carefully bundled up Illidan tightly, trying to bring some measure of warmth back to his limbs while taking great care not to further injure him. Kael cradled the massive demon hunter in his arms, holding him as tightly as he could to share his body warmth. "Illidan," he whispered urgently, pleading with more than a hint of desperation in his voice, "my love. Wake up. Please, wake up."

Losing him was not an option. It was that simple for Kael.

"We need to get him back to the Temple," Vashj said.

"Of course we do," he snapped a bit more sharply than he truly intended. "But we also need to make sure he's well enough to survive travel across such a great distance--not to mention finding a way back in the first place."

Vashj turned to stare at the obelisks, and gestured toward them. "They've already been attuned with his energy, and the ley lines here are still active and overflowing with power. Perhaps you could re-route the portal, as we did in the Violet Hold."

It was a reckless plan to be certain; such an outpouring of arcane power might well alert Arthas to their presence. Still, Kael could see no other alternative. They absolutely had to get back to the Black Temple as soon as possible if Illidan had any chance of survival, and this was the only shot they had.

With unbelievable gentleness, Kael brushed his fingers across Illidan's chest and muttered a brief incantation, lightening his massive weight. He then rose with Illidan's tightly bundled body cradled in his arms, carried him to the platform and gently lay him down. He then set to work on the Gate, with Vashj hovering protectively over their fallen master. Redirecting a Gate was a difficult matter even under the best of circumstances, but with Kael's prodigious arcane talent and the sheer flow of energy in this place, he held little doubt he could accomplish it. One by one, he tapped into the power of the runes, drawing from the ley lines, and bent the Gate to his indomitable will. The tricky part would be the failsafe enchantment he would need to weave into the spell, that would collapse the Gate behind them and revert it to its previous state. It would not do, after all, to escape only to leave an open door for the Scourge to pursue them right into Outland.

Chanting to a powerful crescendo, Kael raised his arms, the trio of ever-present verdant spheres floating about him like ioun stones shimmering that much brighter, and the deep cobalt nimbus surrounding the portal faded to a deep, emerald hue.

He rushed to the platform, to Illidan's side. The demon hunter's head lay upon Vashj's lap, resting against her glistening scales, a clawed hand grasped in her own. Her angular face had softened, an expression of deepest concern upon it, and she was whispering something in the Nazja tongue. When she looked up at Kael, her eyes were brimming, and he thought his heart might break inside his chest.

He was never alone in his concern for Illidan. Not ever.

Reaching down, he knelt beside them, grasping Illidan's other hand as the obelisks activated one by one, the sigils on the platform glowing as the spell did its work. To Kael's amazement, he felt the hand move, ever so slightly, the gesture faint enough that at first he thought he'd only imagined it. However, he looked down at Illidan, and his lashes fluttered, opening slowly to reveal the unnatural eyes he'd been gifted with. Eyes Kael had never seen until now, obscured as they were behind the ever-present blindfold that now rested in the folds of the cape that kept Illidan warm.

Spheres of pure fel metal stared back at him, some sort of alloy he could not fathom, etched with demonic sigils so ancient even the warlocks of old would not have recognized them. They were unlike anything Kael had ever seen in his life, either with his own eyes, or in the vast libraries of lost Dalaran. Their emerald light was dimmed but nonetheless present. Kael found them remarkably beautiful.

Illidan was weakly reaching out to him, then, trying in vain to lift his hand. Kael did it for him, lifting Illidan's hand to his cheek. When a talon weakly caressed it, Kael closed his eyes with a hitched breath. Even now, even in such a state, Illidan's touch was like nothing else.

" _Dalah'surfal_ ," he murmured, his voice rasping and quiet. Kael opened his eyes, his smile radiant and reassuring.

"Yes, my love," Kael answered. "I am here." However, almost soon as he'd said it, Illidan's eyes closed once more as he slipped back into unconsciousness. Sighing, Kael squeezed his hand one last time before shifting his weight, to bear Illidan through the portal. He looked questioningly at Vashj, as if to ask for her help, but she looked as though she'd been hit with a sledgehammer.

Stunned into silence by the display she'd just witnessed, Vashj stared at Kael for a long moment. Surely she had remembered the meaning of that Kaldorei endearment, and there was no misconstruing how he'd said it. There was no mistaking the look in his fel eyes, the caress of Kael's cheek.

Illidan had called him "beloved".

"Quickly, we must go." Her voice was broken, it was filled with venom, grief, and a thousand emotions Kael had not the words to describe. It was what he had dreaded perhaps as much as Illidan's demise. He couldn't lose Vashj's friendship, not now, and not over this.

There was no time for that, though. Together, they retrieved the fallen warglaives and lifted Illidan, each shouldering the burden in equal measure, and stepped through the portal to Outland, to return once more to the Black Temple.

Equals in service to its Lord and Master, perhaps for the last time.


	6. Sanctuary

It was morning, though as always it was difficult to tell by the perpetually shadowed skies of the valley. Though Kael found that sky unnerving at first, he'd grown somewhat accustomed to it, and watched it curiously. The distant light of Azeroth and her twin moons danced across a canvas of inky dark greens and black, and he found it beautiful in a macabre sort of way. The Broken servitor sat the tray upon the nearby table, bowing deeply, and Kael's brief reverie was interrupted. "Your tea, my Lords."

"Thank you," Illidan said, his voice rumbling in that basso-profundo tone he often took when he was brooding. His back remained turned, the wing that was broken still set and bandaged. Kael smiled cordially at the bowing servant, and dismissed him with a brief, polite gesture. This was Illidan's private sanctuary, this lush hanging garden terrace off the Den of Mortal Delights. None were permitted there on pain of death, but for the Sin'dorei botanists who maintained it under the watchful eye of the druid Freywinn, and the occasional servant. None, that is, but the Master himself, and Kael'thas Sunstrider, his right hand. It was somewhat cooler here than elsewhere on this level of the temple, the heat of hellish Shadowmoon Valley far less oppressive and sweltering here, though Kael still wore his intricately embroidered summer robes, light and sleeveless. The terrace was pleasant, an oasis of colorful flowers, a peaceful rock fountain and cool breezes. It was perfect for morning tea, a traditional daily ritual that the urbane Blood Elf still insisted upon. Illidan, for his part, seemed to enjoy it at any rate.

Kael leaned forward in his chair, and poured himself a cup from the teapot. The steam wafted the warm scent of rich, earthy spice tinged with the faintest note of mint. This was a tea peculiar to the Draenei, Akama had said, and was believed to have healing properties--largely due to the blend of dreaming glory and mana thistle, Kael deduced. Unlike most teas of that nature, however, this one actually tasted good. It seemed to be aiding in Illidan's recovery as well, at least physically. His emotional recovery...that was an entirely different matter altogether.

"Do you want some of that nectar with yours, love?" Kael asked, pouring some tea for Illidan, and reached for a small, brightly painted earthen jar on the tray. It was a bit thicker than honey, and sweeter; it reminded Kael somewhat of the delicious nectar drinks common to Dalaran, and made him a bit wistful. "The Consortium trader brought some more of it, at my request."

Illidan did not answer him, remaining at the railing to stare out at the darkened sky. He had been so distant in the days since their return from Azeroth. As if his mind were a world away. Illidan often slipped into moods like this, but this one seemed different somehow, and it troubled Kael. He hadn't spoken about what had transpired in Icecrown. He hadn't spoken much at all, really.

"Illidan?" Kael frowned, replacing the jar on the tray. "Illidan, please. Since we've come back here, you barely eat, you barely speak; you barely even look at me sometimes. If I've displeased you, I would at least like to know why, so that I can make amends."

There was a long, terrible silence, and Kael was half-afraid that he _had_ displeased his lord, that he'd overstepped bounds in his genuine concern. Suddenly, however, Illidan broke the silence at last, and spoke. "He said that he'd claimed you."

Kael blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Arthas," Illidan scowled, and the acid that dripped from the word was palpable. "He knew. I don't know how, but he knew."

"Knew...? What are you talking about?"

"When we fought. I had the upper hand, I was--I _had_ him, and then he boasted that he'd struck you down. He crowed that Frostmourne hungered, that the damned blade claimed your soul and that you were forever lost to me. I faltered, then. I..."

Illidan's words trailed off into a kind of choked silence, and Kael sighed deeply, taking a long, soothing drink of tea. "I see," the prince said, his full lips curling into a slight frown.

"I wanted to die." The words were uttered quietly, through clenched teeth. "What did anything matter? What meaning did anything have?" Illidan continued, almost as if to answer Kael's unspoken confusion. "You were lost and I wanted to die. That was all I knew in that moment."

Impulsive to the bitter end, a raging storm of passions befitting his name. To give up so easily, to be that overwhelmed by despair...Kael didn't how to respond to such a confession; he settled for stating the obvious conclusion. "You let him strike you down." It was less an accusation than a flat statement of fact.

"Does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

"...perhaps I lost my will to fight. Perhaps I believed I had nothing left to lose. Regardless, Arthas won. He ascended the Frozen Throne, and now he himself is the Lich King. That wretched shade has claimed his body for a host."

Kael balked, and nearly choked on his tea, in an uncharacteristically flustered gesture. "He--what?" He could scarce believe his ears. Arthas Menethil was now the Lich King? That traitorous, arrogant whelp of a human prince--barely old enough to be shaving regularly, to Kael's eyes--now commanded the power of Ner'zhul?

"I saw it with my own eyes, heard it with my own ears before I lost consciousness. Arthas freed the armor and claimed it; in their own words, they are one," Illidan elaborated. He laughed then, a dark, sickly sound filled with tangible bitterness. "I failed so utterly in my assigned task that it would be laughable if the consequences weren't so dire. So, now you know. Is your curiosity satisfied? I could not stop that impudent death knight or his master, and now my life is forfeit. Return to your people, Kael, if you know what's good for you. They need you, and there is nothing left for you here."

Kael's heart sank, and he set the cup down. Was this the burden his lover had been carrying since Northrend? "With all due respect, Illidan, I'm not leaving you."

"And why should you stay?" Illidan growled. "To die a meaningless, empty death in this wasteland? The Netherstorm is rich in arcane energy, enough to feed your hunger indefinitely. Take it all and go back to Quel'Thalas, use it to rebuild your kingdom!"

"I will not."

"Why must you be so difficult?" Illidan's claws had curled into fists then, and he was shaking. "Go, Kael'thas. Leave and forget you ever met me, if you wish to live."

Kael rose to his feet and crossed the garden to where Illidan stood. He pressed tightly against him, slipping his bare arms around Illidan's waist, and rested his cheek against that powerfully muscled back between his shoulderblades, upon the space between his wings--taking care not to touch the broken one. "I'm not going anywhere, Illidan."

The choked snarl that escaped Illidan's throat in response was half-angry, half-miserable, and it only made Kael hold onto him tighter. "I do not want to lose you, _dalah'surfal_. I can't."

"For pity's sake, Illidan. You don't want to lose me, so you think to send me away? Perhaps Arthas struck you in the head."

"Don't jest, you fool," Illidan snapped. He sighed, and his tone was pleading then, his voice quivering. "I said I would never forsake you, and I meant that. That is why I am telling you--why I am _begging_ you to leave. My time is done, Kael. It is over. I can't run from the Legion forever. But you, my love-- _you have a future_. Don't throw that future away for me...I'm not worth it. Don't throw your life away for nothing!"

"A future and a life without you in it is worth less than nothing," Kael countered defiantly. What in the Nether had gotten into this man? Had he simply decided to give up again, to let fate take him as it may? What the bloody hell was _wrong_ with Illidan? "And your time will end on _your_ terms, not Kil'jaeden's. Isn't that why we're here? What in the hell did we cast down Magtheridon for, to lay down and die weeping like lambs to the slaughter? When did Illidan Stormrage ever give up? When were you ever such a rank coward?"

There was a second long, pointed silence that hung in the air then, one that was finally broken after what seemed like an eternity, by the sound of a bitter, choked sob.

"...when you came back for me."

Kael was suddenly shifted aside as Illidan turned to face him, his blindfold wet with tears. Illidan's hands caressed his smooth cheeks, taloned fingers brushing upwards to tangle themselves in his wealth of thick, golden hair. Kael's lips parted and he sighed, half in pleasure and half in utter bafflement. "What? I don't--"

"You could have left," Illidan rumbled, half-purring as he pulled Kael tightly against him. "It would have been such a simple thing to leave me to die there, but you didn't. In the delirium, I thought I heard your voice--"

"You did hear it," Kael sighed, closing his eyes, losing himself in the sensation of Illidan's hands in his hair. "You didn't imagine it. I was there. Vashj and I spent days searching for you."

"You told me you loved me. And I believed it with more certainty than I did when we made love in that cave."

"For Light's sake, Illidan, I wasn't lying. Neither then, nor now. Were you?"

"Of course not. You have my heart, Kael, as surely as Tyrande does. Perhaps that's why I'm so damned afraid," Illidan confessed, clinging to the smaller man. "Perhaps that's why I foundered when I fought Arthas, why I'm still doing it now. If you had left me there, everything would have been so much more simple."

"Don't be absurd, you would have died."

"Death is simple. It's living that's so wretchedly difficult."

"You don't know how to live without being a martyr," Kael accused him, though his tone was gentle, empathetic. "You truly don't, do you? That kind of pain has been a part of you for so long that you don't know how to cope without it. That someone could return your affection frightens the hell out of you, doesn't it?"

"I've been a martyr for ten-thousand years, Kael. Should I know anything different?"

"...no, I suppose you shouldn't, at that." Kael replied softly. "But have you considered that perhaps it's long past time you did? I'll remind you that you came back for me, first. You could have just as easily let me die to the frost wyrm."

Illidan sighed, then, and squeezed Kael tightly against him. "If you stay here, you stay as a fugitive from the Legion. If you return to Azeroth--"

"This, again?" Kael's tone was incredibly exasperated, now, Illidan's stubborn refusal to listen to reason irritating him beyond measure. "What remains for me in Azeroth, Illidan? My father is dead, the Sunwell is lost, and Quel'Thalas is no more. Dalaran is little more than dust in the wind. And the storied Alliance of Lordaeron? An utter failure of an institution crippled and scattered by its own shameful dishonor and hollow betrayals of its peoples and principles, much like the fallen kingdom that bears its name. Even were it to somehow rally from the dead, no Sin'dorei will ever raise arms or magic under that banner again as long as I live, not after Garithos. No, Illidan, nothing remains for me in Azeroth. My future, and that of my people, lies with you. Why do you think we followed you so willingly? You gave us the means to survive. In our darkest hour, you gave us hope and a renewed sense of purpose. And we'll build a kingdom in this world to rival anything my ancestors accomplished."

"Eloquent words, Kael, as usual. But you can't accomplish that with Kil'jaeden breathing down your neck, and that is precisely what will happen if you insist on remaining here with me. Is that what your people would want?"

It was akin to trying to hold a conversation with a wall. Well, if Illidan refused to listen to the lover that cared for him, Kael thought, then perhaps he would pay attention to the consummate military strategist that led a vastly outnumbered force to victory against the Scourge in Alterac. Perhaps it was time that Kael reminded Illidan that he wasn't merely some lovestruck schoolboy, that Kael, for decades, had been schooled in the art of military planning and tactics by the most powerful warmage his people had ever known--his own father--and was himself counted among the Kirin Tor's most powerful archmagi. Illidan needed to be reminded of Kael's worth to him, if someone to share his bed was not enough.

"Nothing you say will make me abandon you, Illidan," Kael snapped, his tone turning coldly regal. " _Nothing_. You mistake me for the treacherous humans of the Alliance if you think I'm going to turn my back on you when you need me most. I haven't forgotten my responsibilities to my people, by any measure, but neither have I forgotten my responsibilities to you. I pledged my loyalty to your cause, and unlike the cowardly dogs of Lordaeron, I'm a man of my word. We're going to need allies, to reinforce the troops we lost in Northrend. We'll send emissaries to the ruins at Shattrath, surely Akama's kinsmen there will aid us against the Legion, a common foe. And despite its desolation, this valley is rich in ore and minerals...I'll conduct formal negotiations with the Ethereals, perhaps we can come to an agreement, and contract their mercenaries to bolster our numbers. And we absolutely _must_ shore the defenses here, there are any number of places that could easily be breached, like the walls surrounding the sewer ways--or have you forgotten how easy it was for own our forces to seize control of this supposedly impregnable temple--"

"Kael, your points are well taken, but--"

"Let me finish, Illidan. I didn't save you in Northrend just to let you die cowering within the walls of this temple alone. I choose to stand with you and fight. Not merely because I swore an oath of fealty to you, but because I don't want to lose you any more than you want to lose me. My love for you simply won't allow it, and neither will my pride and honor as Prince of the Sin'dorei." Kael's upturned gaze was defiant and determined, and Illidan finally had no choice but to capitulate. Kael'thas Sunstrider was perhaps the one person alive more stubborn than he, and Illidan seemed to realize it then, as the faintest hint of a smile etched its way onto the corner of his lips.

"...thank you, Kael." Illidan hunched down a bit to kiss the top of his head, conceding defeat in his own way, resting his cheek against it. "From the bottom of my heart. That means a great deal to me, more than you could ever know. Never has anyone chosen to stand by me this way. Not with so much left to lose."

Kael, tall as he was, still needed to stand on tiptoe to kiss Illidan. But kiss him Kael did, with as much passion and depth of conviction as he ever had, his lips sweet with the nectar and rich earthiness of the tea. Another deep rumble rose in Illidan's throat, one of those idle noises of pleasure he made that frequently stirred lust within Kael. His powerful arms held him tightly in a near vice-grip despite the soreness of his ribs, almost as though the demon hunter were afraid if he let go, Kael would slip right through his fingers.

"Allow me to be a comfort to you, my love," Kael whispered, his hands gently caressing Illidan's back. "If it's at all in my power, I would wipe your pain away. But I can't if you won't even let me try."

" _Dalah'surfal._ "

"I would make you feel at peace, if you'd only let me," Kael continued, his hands sliding down Illidan's back, his long, slender fingers deftly massaging out knots as they found them.

"You are my peace, Kael," Illidan moaned softly back to him, running claws through his hair, leaning down to kiss his neck. "More than you know."

Kael's breath hitched and he slid his hands down the small of Illidan's back into his loose fitting pants, kneading taut muscles to draw more of those delicious sounds from him. As Kael sunk down to his knees, trailing soft, lazy kisses down Illidan's torso, it was obvious what they both wanted, what they craved from each other. Not the paradoxically tender roughness of their first encounter, no--Kael feared Illidan couldn't, not with the injuries he was still recovering from.

"You told me you would never forsake me. I swear the same to you, Illidan: that as long as I draw breath, you will have my magic, my blade, and my heart," Kael said, lightly tugging the cord at Illidan's waist, loosing it. His burning eyes never left Illidan's face, even as he slowly pulled down the billowing cloth to reveal dusky violet skin glistening with sweat. Illidan's lips parted, his tongue flicking across them to taste the hint of nectar from Kael's lips, and his breath became heavy. It was odd, that--even with this gesture of apparent submission, Kael was showing him just how powerful he was. How seductive he was. Hunger danced across Illidan's face--naked, raw hunger. The demon hunter was entirely at Kael's mercy, and the thought thrilled him.

Illidan absently kicked away his pants with a twitch of his hoof, and leaned back against the railing to brace himself, all the while petting Kael's golden hair. He smiled wickedly down at the sin'dorei. "Would that you swore fealty to me in this manner before."

"Perhaps I should have, if you believed sending me away was at all feasible," Kael snickered, his pouting lips smirking lasciviously. "I apparently let you think I was expendable. So, let me remove all doubt that my place is at your side... _Master_." The word was dripping with sardonic impishness, then.

"And on your knees--" The clever retort was caught in Illidan's throat mid-sentence, however, as his voice was quickly stolen from him in short order. All he could do was tilt his head back with a clawed fist filled with spun gold, and melt into Kael's tongue.

And Kael was agonizingly slow, deliberate in his motions, tracing the powerful muscles of Illidan's inner thighs with his fingertips, then his tongue. Warm kisses and hot breath followed, tantalizingly close...and then he pulled back. It was too easy for Kael, too amusing to feel the clawed fingers flexing in his hair, to feel Illidan trembling beneath him in growing desperation. It was amusing...and intoxicating, this kind of power Kael had over him. The Lord of Outland was like putty in his hands. At last, no longer content with merely teasing him, Kael began slipping Illidan into his mouth.

His tongue curled about him, sliding across him in softness, roughness. Even Kael, who was utterly bereft of anything resembling a gag reflex, was left nearly choking by Illidan's sheer size. Still he managed, in stages, to take him entirely into his mouth by practiced skill and sheer force of will.

Kael's lips suckled Illidan with lustful abandon, his tongue dancing and thrashing across the surface. His hands slid down, cupping Illidan from beneath to gently massage him. The sounds of unmistakable pleasure escaping Illidan's lips only served to encourage Kael's enthusiasm: a languid groan here, a sharp, low grunt there, shudders and sighs. Kael closed his eyes, letting them stroke his ears, and tried to please him that much more.

After what seemed like an eternity of blissful communion, Illidan's body finally tensed, his claws tightening fists in Kael's hair. The demon hunter arched his back, grunting and gasping for breath as he at last found release in his lover's mouth. Kael savored it, as always, and gently caressed Illidan's thighs, smiling up at him. Illidan's own smile was somewhat delirious, and it only widened when he helped Kael to his feet and held him in his arms once more.

No words needed to be exchanged between them. A simple embrace, warm with the promise of what the future held despite its uncertainty, was all they needed.

***

Later that evening, following a hectic afternoon filled with meetings and councils of war, with Broken, Naga, and his own Sin'dorei advisors, Kael was summoned to Illidan's cavernous private chambers. It had been far from the first time, naturally given the nature of their relationship, and Kael was intimately familiar with every nook and cranny of the elaborately decorated rooms. Illidan seemed to favor the decadence of Sin'dorei design much more than the rustic simplicity of his own people's aesthetic. Silk cushions were scattered across the floor on plush, soft carpets, there were crystalline hookahs blown from the finest glass, and there was a vast canopy of dark violet gauze hanging down from the ceiling over the enormous bed. But there _was_ one thing that was different. Kael noticed it almost immediately.

A small, gilded avian perch sat in a corner surrounded by plants, by a small fountain. It was A'lar's favorite perch, the one she adored to rest upon when she was not in her customary home within Kael's heart, or soaring across the elemental planes. What's more, Kael's personal library--miraculously intact following the fall of the palace in Silvermoon, and brought to him in Outland by Rommath--had apparently been transported in its entirety here. So, too, was his mother's old vanity, filled with all manner of Kael's trinkets and jewelry, as well as the antique hairbrush, comb and mirror set that had been handed down in his family since the time of the Highborne. Truly, it seemed as though everything Kael owned was carefully placed in these rooms.

But perhaps most remarkable of all, _Felo'melorn_ , Kael's treasured spellsword, hung in a place of distinct honor above the mantle of the fireplace, right underneath the crossed Warglaives of Azzinoth. There was no denying what this meant.

"You still have your personal rooms down the corridor, of course," Illidan said, stepping out of the shadows. "I would hate to deny you your privacy if you so choose."

Kael was simply overwhelmed by the gesture. Illidan was making a place for him, not only in his heart, but physically as well, in his own space. For once, Kael was struck speechless. Illidan wordlessly opened his arms wide, and the prince went to him; they held each other in as tight an embrace they dared.

"Thank you, Illidan."

Illidan grinned a bit wryly. "It's I who should be thanking you, Kael. It was a bit lonely in here." His expression turned serious, then. "There's one more thing I need to show you."

Kael watched in curiosity as Illidan slowly knelt, wincing a bit in soreness, but was nonetheless able to slide a large, black chest out from under the bed. It was covered in chains and all manner of strange, glowing runes; even from where Kael was standing, waves of magical energy poured from it. Whether it was emanating from the obvious bindings of protection on the chest, its mysterious contents, or both, it was clearly apparent that a great deal of power was involved. He idly wondered how he managed to miss such a pool of concentrated energy right beneath the bed, but rather wickedly remembered he'd had other things on his mind on those occasions. Illidan carefully ran his hands along the chains, muttering some manner of incantation Kael did not recognize, and they loosened beneath his grasp. After a few moments, the chest opened itself, and Illidan retrieved a much smaller, much simpler wooden box from within it. Oddly, it was no larger than the sort of box one would use to keep a deck of Darkmoon cards.

"Illidan?" Kael asked in confusion, raising a questioning eyebrow. Illidan simply clutched the box tightly, and beckoned for the prince to follow him out the door.

"Come, my love."

Obediently, Kael followed him--down the corridor a ways, back to the selfsame terrace they had spent a rather pleasant morning. However, when they arrived, Lady Vashj stood waiting for them. She idly slithered amongst to the flowers to take in their fragrance, the very picture of ancient Highborne grace and nobility despite her inhuman appearance. Kael had been rather pointedly avoiding her since the disaster in Northrend, an odd feeling of guilt sinking within him every time he saw her. He hadn't forgotten the wounded look in her eyes when Illidan addressed him with endearments, nor the words she spoke days before their departure from the temple, when she warned him that Illidan could never love anyone, that his heart still belonged to Tyrande after all these years. Kael was not a foolish elf by any means, and knew well what these things meant. Avoiding her was somewhat cowardly of him, and he was not terribly proud of it, but he needed more time to figure out how to speak to her.

"Hello, Vashj," Illidan said, smiling faintly at her as he led Kael onto the terrace.

"Lord Illidan," Vashj greeted him, with a demure incline of her head. "Prince Kael'thas. Good evening to you both."

There was a slight coldness in the way she spoke Kael's name, though she was cordial, and it made the prince feel guilty all over again. "Good evening to you as well, Lady Vashj. I hope it finds you well."

For a moment it appeared her expression softened a bit, but she returned to minding the flowers. Kael quietly sighed, but said nothing. Illidan, for his part, did not seem to notice the exchange--or, more likely, decided not to say anything about it.

"Vashj, Kael. I brought you both here because there's something I wish to say," Illidan said.

Vashj appeared slightly startled for a moment, as though she weren't expecting such a thing, but quickly recovered. "Yes, my lord?"

Illidan's thumb caressed the etchings on the small wooden box, and he sighed. "The path before us is fraught with much danger and uncertainty. But I suppose I don't need to tell either of you that. You know as well as I that the Legion will not take my failure lightly."

" _Our_ failure, Master," Kael gently corrected him. "It was not your burden to bear alone."

Vashj nodded in solidarity. "We will triumph together, or we will fall together."

"...I rather thought you'd feel that way." Illidan's thumb slid the latch on the box open, and suddenly Kael understood just where that overwhelming sensation of arcane energy in the bedroom emanated from. It was inside that box.

Illidan carefully, even reverently, lifted the lid, and unfolded the black silk covering the bundle inside. There lay three slender glass vials resting snuggly, with delicate silver leaves coiled about them. They were filled with water that glowed with an eerie, eldritch light; soft, and beautiful. Kael's breath was caught in his throat as he gazed upon them. The power they held washed over him like high tide across his feet on the Azurebreeze Coast, and it crept at the edges of his arcane hunger, tempting it with its quiet fury. It was like little else Kael had ever felt before. Only...

"Long ago, shortly after the world's sundering, I took three of these vials to Mount Hyjal to remake at least in some small measure the Well that was the center of our lives, that my brother so callously destroyed in his desperation. I gave yet another vial to Dath'Remar Sunstrider--the ancestor you so revere, Kael, whose blade I saw forged, and rests in your chamber. And with that vial, he crossed the seas to the eastern wilderness, and created the Sunwell that built your kingdom and sustained your people for seven thousand years," Illidan started, in a hushed tone. His fingers gently brushed the vials, and he very carefully removed one, gazing upon it enigmatically. "The price I paid for that action, for ensuring the arcane arts were not lost to the world, for saving my people's immortality and way of life, and for giving your ancestors the means to sustain their existence? For this, they cursed me as 'Betrayer' and cast me from them. For this, I endured ten-thousand years of suffering and confinement away from everything and everyone I loved."

"Lord Illidan..." Vashj gasped, unconsciously placing a hand to her mouth as she realized just what those vials were. Surely she knew, felt their energies radiating and recognized them. It suddenly occurred to Kael, then, that Vashj had seen the original Well of Eternity, had possibly even drawn from it, and he was awed. He remembered the tales he'd read, the stories he'd dismissed as so much fanciful myth until Vashj confirmed them for him. His imagination reached back into the mists of time, and it was almost as if he could see Vashj walking along the Well's shore, basking in its light. Not serpentine, but a kaldorei woman. How beautiful she must have been. And what of Illidan? No wings, no horns, simply an impetuous kaldorei youth following the passion of his convictions, no matter what the personal cost.

Had Malfurion been the one to place his own brother in shackles, he wondered? Had Tyrande been the last face he saw before he was led into the darkness? Perhaps that was why she still haunted his thoughts. The thought nearly broke Kael's heart.

Illidan, however, was undeterred by their shocked silence. "I offer a vial to you, Kael--and one to you, Vashj. Let the waters of Eternity stand as a symbol of our bonds of allegiance, and my promise to you both that I will do everything I can to see your people prosper. Our people."

Stunned, Kael accepted the vial with wide eyes; he held it in his grasp as though he were afraid it wasn't real. Vashj was no less overwhelmed when she took a second vial from his outstretched hand. The final vial was left in the box.

This was a gift that Kael would never be able to repay. This gift meant the salvation of the blood elves. Of course it would take a great deal of time and research to learn how to replicate his ancestor Dath'Remar's miracle of arcane engineering. Kael was not even certain it _could_ be replicated; did the lore, the process, even exist anymore? It didn't matter, though, not to Kael. He would find a way, or die trying. He would build another Sunwell, just as Illidan created another Well of Eternity, and Quel'Thalas would rise from the ashes on Azeroth to even greater glory in Draenor. His people would prosper as they never had before, in their new promised land, and they would raise an army the likes of which that thrice-cursed Kil'jaeden had never seen before. The Legion would be scattered to the Nether, never to threaten Illidan again. Kael would do everything he could to see it through. That was what this gift meant to his people, to him.

It was what Illidan Stormrage meant to him.


	7. Seeds of Ambition

The operation had to be conducted under the dark of night, in the deepest of shadows. Despite their successes in rooting out the Legion's strongholds, there were still too many of them there in the Valley for Illidan's comfort. He could not chance being discovered; the stakes were far too high, and the consequences would be catastrophic were the Legion to stop him, or even reclaim the subject, coming on the heel of the losses in Northrend. Fortunately, if there was one skill in which Illidan Stormrage excelled above all others, even magic, it was subterfuge. It was risky to do it this way, yes, but risk was not something he at all flinched from, to put it mildly. The payoff if he succeeded, if his hypotheses were correct, would be tremendous. He would have a new body of shock troops for his army: brutal, strong, and absolutely loyal to him for the power he alone could provide them with.

One lesson Illidan had quickly learned during his sojourn in Outland was that orcs were by nature warmongers, and that they responded best to shows of strength. The warlocks among them were powerful, yes, and could be as cunning as their old demonic masters. However, on the whole, the orcs were fundamentally a bloodthirsty race that would flock to the strongest banner they could find, whether it be one of the charismatic warlords or warlocks of their own number, or even an outsider like himself. Promise them a place of honor from which to fight their enemies, show them you have the might and the cunning to lead them to victory, and they would fight to the death for you, whether or not you were an orc. The Shadowmoon clan's warlocks were wily, and though Illidan did not trust them by any means--only a fool would, and Illidan was no fool--they had witnessed his power when he seized the Black Temple and struck down their old master. His tremendous strength was something they wisely respected, and that was why they swore allegiance to him.

And they had proven their usefulness. After all, their tales of how their people had been empowered by the Legion were what gave Illidan the very idea for this scheme. Their magic had kept the subject subdued for weeks now, and would be what would make Illidan's plans possible. All that was needed was a suitable locale for Illidan's experiments, and while the Black Temple was a good enough base for most of his purposes, he had a better place in mind. One that would benefit greatly from the fortification his new soldiers would provide, and would serve him as another strong base of power.

So it was, in the deepest hour of night, when even Shadowmoon Valley was pitch black, that the self-proclaimed Lord of Outland stood in the main courtyard of the Black Temple, personally overseeing the transport of the subject to the appointed destination far to the north. High overhead, orc scouts from the Dragonmaw clan circled the skies on their majestic netherdrakes, scouting for any potential sign of the Legion's agents. And Illidan watched as their brutish compatriots silently moved the enormous prison cage using little more than their own prodigious physical strength. The air about the wagon rippled softly with dark power, the warlocks' magics shrouding it in a manner that would cloak the distinct energy signature of the enormous prisoner inside the cage. The same warlocks who once served this very prisoner unquestioningly for two decades. Indeed, the servants had become the master. Naturally, this was intentional on the part of Illidan. It was not merely for his own twisted amusement--though the humiliation it clearly riled in his prisoner _did_ amuse Illidan to no end. This was as much for the orcs' benefit as anything. It was another show of strength, to show them how powerful their new master was. Just in case the weaker-minded among them may have lingering doubts about just whom was truly Lord of this broken world.

"You...will... _pay_ for this, you blind mongrel. You...usurper," the prisoner spat, snarling, the mighty voice that once boomed throughout the walls of the Black Temple reduced to a shallow, belabored husk. He lay sprawled on his side, his body still bearing the scars of the battle he lost two months prior, the battle that had reduced him to spitting curses at the man who had cut him down. Illidan merely snickered at him.

"To the victor go the spoils, Magtheridon. And I am the victor, as all can plainly see--even a blind mongrel." Illidan's deadpan tone only seemed to enrage the fallen pit lord further, and Magtheridon angrily lashed out as if to strike Illidan. The orcish warlocks laughed as their prisoner flinched back in pain, burned by the cage's magic. It was truly an ingenious method of imprisonment: the warlocks, through their combined powers, conducted a ritual of banishment on the demon that was empowered by a series of cubes along the outside of the pallet the cage rested upon. The effect was that he was mostly insubstantial, and though he could move, he would not be able to do very much. As a fail safe, the bars themselves were enchanted with a spell that would only harm incorporeal beings. There was neither respite, nor possibility of escape for the fallen old ruler of the Black Temple.

"Curse you, Illidan!" Magtheridon hissed, collapsing back to lay again on his side.

"Yes, yes." It was nothing Illidan hadn't heard before, after all. "And yet, here I am, master of the Black Temple and ruler of this world, and there you are, impotent and caged as though you were the world's largest and most petulant bird. How, again, do you plan to make me pay for anything?"

"You arrogant dilettante," the pit lord scowled, his enormous fangs dripping fel venom. "Powerful though you might be, you are a grievous fool if you truly think to overcome the Deceiver himself. His power is beyond reckoning! Scheme as you will, half-breed. It will all be in vain. The Legion will not be so easily displaced, not in this world or any other. Draenor is _ours_. It will never belong to you, no matter how you seek to play the king on a pretend throne. The Deceiver will return, and he will make you rue the day you failed him."

"Your idle threats mean little to me, pathetic demon," Illidan replied coolly. "Your own Dark Titan empowered me to fight your kind, ten-thousand years ago. And if your brethren refuse to recognize my rule over this domain, if they refuse to use what little wisdom they possess and surrender to my dominion as your former servants in _my_ Temple have done? I will hunt each and every one of them down like the rats they are, I will send them fleeing in terror the dark corners in which they hide simpering and plotting against me, and I will send them back to Kil'jaeden in pieces!"

With a flare of his wings, Illidan gestured for the orcs to continue moving the prisoner, and on they pushed. Then, he beckoned the leader of the warlocks to come forward. The elder orc's posture was even more stooped than that of his fellows, but his eyes shone bright with power. This was an old and dangerous one, and Illidan believed witnessing this display would serve him well.

"Yes, Lord Illidan?" The warlock knelt before Illidan in reverence.

"I should not need to remind you of the importance of secrecy," the Lord of Outland warned the old orc. "The Legion has eyes everywhere, even now, and if its agents intercept Magtheridon, the consequences would be dire."

"Do not worry, my lord," the warlock reassured him. "We, too, have eyes everywhere. Our forward scouts have prepared the way, and Bladefist has already secured the Citadel. The lair itself lies beneath, and it is warded thoroughly. None shall know what transpires within its walls."

"Excellent," Illidan purred, his tone marked by a mildly basso-profundo rumbling. "You have done well, Keli'dan. Continue to do so, and your people will be handsomely rewarded."

"As you command, Lord Illidan." Keli'dan saluted Illidan in the customary orcish manner, a fist pounded against his chest, and he was dismissed to rejoin his warlocks with the prisoner.

A feline grin crept its way across the Lord of Outland's lips. What better way to best Kil'jaeden than to use his own precious scheme--his own power--against him? Then he would see which of them was the fool.

***

Kael held court early the next morning within the cavernous chamber near the temple's summit. He'd left Illidan sleeping in bed, as usual. Even after so many millennia, Illidan was still largely nocturnal, and thus had a tendency to rise long after Kael did, even in this place with next to no visible sun.

This room, which had been informally deemed the Chamber of Command, was for all intents and purposes Kael's war room. Though there was no less the usual lush, decadent sin'dorei decor--gauzy drapes and plush silk floor cushions, enchanted lamps with scented oils, and the occasional hookah--there was no mistaking it for anything but. Its focal point was a large, round table, upon which sat an enormous map of Outland with groups of small clay figures clumped in various places. A second map, even bigger, hung upon the wall, punctured here and there by small pins.

Kael sat at the "head" of the table, as was customary, and with him were a motley assortment of Illidan's forces: most were blood elves, but Lady Vashj was present, on his left, as were Elder Akama and a small number of his draenei. He waited, staring at the map on the table, and his focus as it always seemed to be was on the section of the map representing Shadowmoon Valley. Kael's blood elves were instrumental in reclaiming a number of scattered draenei ruins in the Valley, bases that were formerly occupied by the Legion, and marked by the small elf-shaped figurines on the map. With each new victory, more and more of the Valley was secured under Illidan's control. Still, more needed to be done, and Shadowmoon Valley was merely one small section of Outland. The map, and with it the task before Kael, seemed daunting. Yet he remembered well the lessons of his father: there is no task so large that it cannot be broken down into its component parts. If they could focus on a region at a time, rooting out the rest of the Legion's agents and establishing more bases would not be quite so formidable a prospect.

The prince's eyes traced a line from the Black Temple to Terokkar Forest, which lay just beyond the mountain pass far to the west. It seemed to be the next logical theater of operations. After all, Illidan's forces were quickly in dire need of lumber and other resources, particularly sources of food and water to replenish the Temple's stores, and that was an obvious location to find them and begin to establish supply chains. Once the Valley was relatively secure, they could begin to branch out, but further intelligence was sorely needed. Kael hated going into situations lacking information, and he'd seen very little of this world since he'd been in it; Illidan's army had used the Legion's own transporters to move there in Shadowmoon from Hellfire Peninsula far to the north, in order to take the temple from Magtheridon's forces. None of them had traveled overland, thus Kael had little knowledge of this world beyond that gleaned from the Six's debriefing of Medivh's apprentice, Khadgar--and Kael bore little memory of that questioning. The reports had also long since been lost in Dalaran's destruction a year prior, which didn't help matters. Kael continued staring at the map, mulling over his options, as his people filed in to take seats around the table, until a familiar voice intruded on his contemplations:

"My Prince."

It was a voice Kael had not heard in weeks. One he had not heard in far too long, as far as Kael was concerned. He looked up from the map to see the upturned face of his oldest and dearest friend gazing up at him from on bended knee beside him. It was a borderline worshipful expression, eyes that hid nothing behind their bright emerald glow. How was it that he always seemed to look at Kael that way, as though they were the only two people not just in the room, but in the world? And he was so beautiful, as always, long, dark hair framing his delicate elven features just so. It made Kael smile. He always did, ever since they were children.

"Rommath," Kael greeted him warmly, his smile growing brighter. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

"I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner," Rommath apologized. "We've been horrendously busy in the Sanctum."

"Please tell me it's for good reason." Kael raised a questioning eyebrow at him, and Rommath met it with a slightly impish smile.

"I assure you, it's good news I bring," he replied a bit smugly.

Kael grinned, then gestured to the empty seat beside him. "Please, sit. I'll be pleased to find out just what you and the others have been up to these past few weeks. We've missed you at these war councils."

They exchanged a glance then, a brief one, yet one worth a thousand upon thousand words. It occurred to him then, however, that he truly missed him since the return from Northrend. As Grand Magister, Rommath's duties directing the blood elves' magical research had kept him occupied, though brief, cryptic missives had trickled in from time to time. Deep in the throes of a new relationship with Illidan, and occupied by his efforts in the Temple directing his lover's war effort, Kael hadn't really _had_ the time to miss Rommath. Even during the brief few years when they lived together in Dalaran, their separate duties could mean weeks or even months apart, so it's not as though this was exactly new. But miss him, Kael did, and perhaps he didn't fully realize it until that moment.

"And I am pleased to return to your side, my Prince." Rommath kissed Kael's golden signet ring, prompting the prince to briefly cup his cheek with no small amount of affection, then obediently rose to his feet and sat beside him. "Good morning, Lady Vashj. I hope it finds you well," the magister said politely, with a respectful incline of his head.

"Indeed it does, Grand Magister. And you, as well." Vashj's expression was as enigmatic as ever, but Kael had known her too long now to not perceive the hidden layers beneath such idle pleasantries and glances. The look she proceeded to direct to Kael was less one of displeasure, than a questioning--a challenge. She was by no means a foolish woman, and though Kael prided himself on his sense of discretion, there was no hiding the deeper undercurrent of his exchange with Rommath from her, nor the way his friend looked at him.

That discussion with Vashj, the one he'd been somewhat dreading and thought he'd been spared from with Illidan's gift of the Vials of Eternity, loomed over Kael's head again, and with it an entirely new dimension. He suppressed a sigh, and instead focused on the business at hand. That particular meeting would have to wait. There were more important matters than his romantic entanglements to discuss, and it seemed to him that everyone who needed to be present was finally there.

Kael reached into a small pocket in his robes, retrieving a small violet crystal, and used it to tap the crystal water chalice in front of him. "Ladies and gentlemen, if we could come to order?" The table fell silent, and he continued. "Thank you. As you are all well aware, the focus of our operations thus far in Outland has been here in Shadowmoon Valley." He paused a moment, brushing the violet crystal with his thumb and uttering a brief incantation; it glowed then, and projected a long violet beam, which he directed in a circle around Shadowmoon on the map. "Legion Hold remains our biggest long term concern, of course, but there are smaller points of strategic interest to us. How are our operations faring in the east?"

A tall and extremely well-built armored man spoke up, one rather gruff-looking as blood elves went. Kael recognized him as Ruusk, one of the officers at the Naga blockade in Northrend, and quite the formidable warrior. "We have full control of the eastern Valley, my liege. Everything between the Black Temple and the Hand of Gul'dan is ours," the veteran reported. "The Legion's portals here were few, but they've all been shut down--either re-routed for our own purposes or destroyed outright." He gestured meaningfully at the crystal in Kael's hand. "May I, Highness?"

"Of course, Commander," Kael replied, handing him the crystal.

Ruusk nodded, then aimed the beam at a plateau directly to the southwest of the Black Temple's southern terrace. "You may be interested to learn that Telonicus' engineers have completed the final cage for our other...prisoner of note, Highness. Sarannis and her company are preparing her for transport as we speak, at my command."

Kael glanced at Telonicus, who was sitting directly across the table from him, and the red-haired ranger could barely contain his glee. The glint in his eye was really rather amusing.

"Telonicus?" Kael raised an eyebrow, and the master engineer grinned wickedly.

"She won't be getting out, Highness. I built several nasty fail-safes into the design, mechanical as well as arcane. If she tries anything stupid, she'll quickly learn the error of her thinking."

"Lord Illidan will be quite pleased by that," Kael said quietly, almost purring. "Excellent work. What about that ruin in the north?"

Akama quietly spoke up, then. "The city of Baa'ri, Prince Kael'thas. It was a draenei settlement that fell into ruin years ago when Gul'dan's followers killed the priests in the nearby temple and razed it," the elder sage explained. "The Ashtongue have reclaimed the temple, however. And we are using it as a base from which to send out scouts."

"The mongrels surely must have artifacts of interest to us in those ruins, however crude in nature they might be," a blood elf announced in the Thalassian tongue. Kael was stunned, but not terribly surprised to see that it was Pathaleon the Calculator. The haughty engineer and arcanist had been mentioned by Rommath in more than one communiqué from the Sanctum of the Stars, and not entirely favorably.

"Indeed. I say we claim them for ourselves," a second, dark-haired mage beside him concurred.

"Mind your tongue, Pathaleon," Kael barked sharply, also in Thalassian, with a quick and meaningful glance at Akama. "The draenei are our sworn allies, and I will not have you speak of them in such a disrespectful manner." He then stared pointedly at the engineer. "And for the record, we speak Thalassian only amongst ourselves."

"Very well, Highness." Pathaleon didn't seem terribly penitent, though he reverted to Common, but Kael was not going to press the issue. However rude he was, he did have a point, though.

"Akama, have your men search the ruins. Where there are temples, there are magical artifacts, and perhaps we'll find something to help our cause," Kael said. Akama nodded, then took the crystal from Commander Ruusk. He pointed it toward a location to the west of the ruins, in the north-central area of the Valley, along a northern mountain ridge.

"Of course, Prince. You should know, however, that my scouts have reported that the Legion has a small base here, across the fel river, on this plateau. There are not that many demons there...but the water is clean, untainted by the volcano."

The Prince of the blood elves looked sharply at the draenei elder. Potable water had been of pressing concern to Illidan's forces ever since they claimed the Black Temple. While the temple itself had deep wells that were untainted, it was not enough to supply all the forces in the Valley, and the few other sources of water they found in that desolate wasteland were filled to brimming with sulfur. Telonicus' engineers _had_ built a number of purification devices, but without the arcane energy to power them, they could only do so much. Akama certainly must have known this, and Kael silently blessed the elder sage for having the forethought to search for more fresh water. They'd often forgotten him, as quiet and shadowy a presence as he was in the Temple, but he was no less critical to Illidan's forces than himself or Vashj.

"Are you certain the water is potable, Akama?"

"The scouts brought back samples, which were tested. It is clean water," Akama confirmed. This was wonderful news. Before Kael could even say anything in response, however--as soon as his eyes met hers--Vashj was already grinning at him, her fangs glinting in the lamplight.

"Do not worry, Kael. My naga will have that base by the end of the night."

Kael returned her grin with an even wider one. "You won't be going alone, Vashj. I could use the exercise." He looked back at Ruusk, pointing to the map. "And what of the south-central region, past the volcano? Have we found anything promising there?"

"Another small Legion base, possibly a forward camp. Nothing terribly formidable...and its location up a mountain pass would make an excellent forward camp of our own."

"Very well, Commander. Get your people on it as soon as possible," Kael ordered. Ruusk saluted, and fell silent.

Smiling, Kael finally turned to the man beside him. "Alright. Rommath, what news from the Sanctum?"

Rommath was smiling a bit smugly, and Kael nearly wanted to laugh. He knew that expression quite well; that was the, 'I've solved something that's been hounding me for ages and I'm a damned genius and I can't _wait_ to tell everyone' expression. Kael found it rather endearing, truth be told, not the least of which because Rommath generally had no idea he made that face. "As you know, the main thrust of our research has been to find a method of crystalizing large quantities of fel energy, for the purpose of fueling our spells and magical devices in lieu of the Sunwell, both here and back in Azeroth," Rommath began. "Making larger versions of the portable fel crystals we've been using to sustain ourselves, truly. Since it's a bit more...well, _reliable_ than simply draining demons. But it's proven rather elusive thus far."

"Of course," Kael mused, nodding. "Mana begins to break down once it's crystallized in larger quantities. I assume fel energy is the same?"

"That's the issue we've been having," Rommath admitted. "Fortunately, this region is particularly abundant in fel energy, and Zerevor has been most helpful in studying it. Our primary focus has been the Hand of Gul'dan, as it seems to be the font of the great majority of it. We've obtained sample after sample of rocks from the volcano, both of a metamorphic nature and general igneous rocks from around the caldera itself. What's fascinating is that when the rocks are removed from the fel pools and exposed to ordinary mana, the mineral materials begin to break down, leaving only the pure, liquified fel energy. When poured into ordinary crystal vessels of any size, it retains its structure, and it's just as simple to draw from as the pure fel crystals."

No wonder Rommath was so excited, Kael thought. This was an astounding breakthrough--probably the most important one since their arrival in Outland. "Have you been able to replicate this?"

"Several times over," Rommath replied proudly. "We're already using one to power the Sanctum."

"How quickly can you produce them?"

"I've already left orders for as many as possible, my Prince. It should not take very long at all--perhaps a day or so, at most."

Small tasks. Little by little, Illidan's army would be creeping into the west. With each step, with each new base, they would be that closer to Terokkar Forest and more resources--and now, finally, the blood elves had a source of magic beyond simply draining demons scattershot, even if it may not have been as strong as the Sunwell. It would be more than enough to sustain them until he could rebuild it. Kael was feeling incredibly pleased with these turns of events. Things were going even better than he'd planned, and Illidan was going to be very satisfied with this report. At this rate, Legion Hold might fall within the next couple of months, and Illidan's control of Shadowmoon Valley absolute.

"Good. Very good. Lord Illidan will be very pleased with your progress, I assure you. Now, you all have your assigned duties. This council is hereby adjourned, then. Akama will summon you all again when needed," Kael announced. "Rommath, walk with me?"

"Of course, my Prince," Rommath politely answered. With that, Kael rose to his feet and exited the command chamber, his loyal Grand Magister in tow. Rommath walked two steps behind, as always the very picture of royal protocol and grace. Back outside on one of the temple's many courtyard terraces, they walked at a leisurely pace down the Grand Promenade of the temple, a grand walkway lined by exotic plants and glimmering sin'dorei lanterns attended to by tiny mana wyrms and shimmering moths in a strange array of colors. It was even moderately pleasant out, surprisingly, though that was perhaps because it may have been past high noon. Kael was never able to tell, honestly. A warm breeze brushed by, and Kael allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment to enjoy it.

"Have you been back to Quel'thalas lately?" Kael asked Rommath, as he stopped briefly to smell an unusually red flower.

"Not since our breakthrough on the fel crystals, no. I was waiting for instructions from you," the magister admitted. Kael chuckled.

"So dependable, as always," Kael gently nudged him, a bit playfully, smiling. His expression turned serious again, though, when he clamped his hand on Rommath's shoulder. The magister's eyes were questioning, but he said nothing. "Let's walk a bit more, shall we?"

"Yes, my Prince."

Kael nodded approvingly, and placed a hand upon the small of Rommath's back; a brief gesture, but a meaningful one, and one that Rommath understood. Their pace picked up a bit, but was still rather leisurely. There were matters Kael did not necessarily want to speak of aloud in such open air, even within the confines of the temple, and even in Thalassian such as they were speaking. It wasn't as though Kael had any reason for suspicion; it was simply, as always, a matter of discretion. Discretion, always. It was something Rommath understood just as much as Kael, and that was one of the reasons they'd always gotten along so well.

The two idly discussed such mundane topics as the weather and nothing else of particular import as they traversed the broad plaza, going back inside the Temple proper, and crossed the small distance to Kael's private chamber in short time. When they were alone at last, inside the room, Kael dismissed the ever-present Broken servitors and shut the door behind them. He stared at Rommath questioningly, when at last he was satisfied with the level of privacy.

"What do you think about sending some crystals back to Azeroth?" Kael asked him quietly, crossing over to a small table with a crystal decanter and a pair of wine goblets. He poured out some Silvermoon pinot noir, and handed one glass to a grateful Rommath.

"I think it can be done, especially now that we've re-directed that one Legion teleporter. So far it's one way only, but that's obviously not an issue, and now we have the energy to power it for longer periods of time," Rommath mused aloud, partaking of the wine. Kael smiled--it had always been his favorite.

"I'm a bit concerned about distribution; we don't want those crystals falling into enemy hands," Kael said quietly, drinking from his own glass. "How's the situation back there, have you heard anything from Lor'themar or Halduron?"

"We received a missive at the Sanctum just yesterday from Halduron, in point of fact," Rommath replied. "The islands are still relatively quiet, save the lingering undead in the Scar on Quel'Danas, but the Farstriders have them well under control. I was thinking we could use Magister's Terrace as a staging ground for crystal distribution. It's well-fortified, even now, and it suffered fairly minimal damage during the invasion."

"...that might be a good idea," Kael said, pursing his lips. "Start with the refugee camps at Sun's Reach and the harbor, since those survivors were most of the worst off. They're likely going to need much more energy than the others."

"Yes," Rommath agreed. "Then we can move on to Sunstrider Isle and the mainland proper. If we can get those people on their feet and in fighting shape, it should give Lor'themar and Halduron a big enough boost to make a final push into the city. From there, we can ship in more crystals to rebuild. I don't think we'll have many issues, frankly."

Kael sighed, in equal parts content and relief, and sipped his wine. "You are utterly indispensable, Rom," he said in all sincerity. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You wouldn't be lonely, that much is certain."

Rommath stared at him with a quirked black eyebrow. It was not a snide statement, nor was it especially venomous--Rommath had too much pride to be so crass toward his Prince. But it was typically biting in his manner, and it made Kael wince. As did the penetrating stare.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Rom," Kael apologized. "I should have."

Rommath shrugged. "Your private affairs are your private affairs, Kael. I've never intruded on them before, and I'm not about to start now. It's not as though it was really a secret, at any rate."

"I'm also your friend, and you shouldn't have found out from third party gossip." Kael drew him close into a warm embrace, placing a hand atop his head. "Forgive me."

Rommath rested his head against Kael's shoulder, melting into the embrace, and sighed. "There's nothing to forgive, Kael. There never is."

"What can I say? I've always had a weakness for dark-haired men." Kael squeezed Rommath tightly, and allowed himself to be kissed softly. It felt so good to be with him like this, and he felt guilty for having forgotten that. More guilt rose up within him, as the physical craving for the magister did, and he pulled away from Rommath's lips. He couldn't do this now, as much as he wanted to. There was too much on his mind. "We shouldn't. Not now. I need...time."

"You're not monogamous, are you?" Rommath balked incredulously, and Kael shook his head, laughing a bit cynically.

"How in the Nether could we be? You've seen the Den, haven't you?" Kael smirked. "That ridiculously large bed in there is far from decorative, you know, and Shahraz warms it at least as much as I do, I assure you."

The red flush that creeped into Rommath's cheeks was hilariously adorable, as it always was. The magister cleared his throat briefly, and brushed a stray strand of midnight black hair behind his ear. "...do you love Illidan? Or is this just...what I mean to ask, is this serious?"

"I love him," Kael answered simply. "As much as I've ever fallen in love with anyone. It's not just a fling. Not for either of us."

"I see." They stood there a moment in awkward silence, wrapped in each other's arms, and not knowing quite what to say. Rommath finally pulled away from him, retrieved his wine glass, and sat down on one of the floor cushions. Kael sighed. This is exactly what he didn't want.

"Are you angry with me?"

"You know I could never be angry with you," Rommath said quietly, with a faint smile. "I love you, and I've only ever wanted you to be happy. It's all I've ever wanted. You know that."

"I do."

"And what about Lady Vashj, though? You do realize she knows, right?"

"About us?"

"About you and Lord Illidan, though I've no doubt she knows about us also. Cunning snake, that one--and I mean that with the utmost respect, mind."

Kael sprawled out beside Rommath, glass in hand, with his elbow on a cushion propping up his head. "She's known at least since Northrend. And I honestly don't know what to tell her. She's clearly in love with him, that much is obvious. And hurting her is the last thing I want to do. She means...a great deal to me. For everything she's done for us, and more."

"Putting it off isn't going to help matters," Rommath advised him, sipping his wine germanely. "I shouldn't have to tell you that."

"You don't," Kael sighed again. Rommath reached down and ran his fingers through Kael's hair; a gesture that was eminently comforting to him. "I just don't know what to say."

"You'll figure it out, my Prince," Rommath said quietly, the manner with which he spoke the words unmistakable in its warmth and devotion. "You always do."

Kael set his glass down, then rolled over to rest his head in Rommath's lap, drinking in the comfort and succor at least as much as he did the wine. He dearly hoped his friend was right, for his sake, and for Vashj's.


	8. Beyond the Sea

As High Priestess of Nazjatar, the Lady Vashj had spent ten-thousand years in the loyal service of a living God-Queen. And on this evening, as she had on so many countless others, Vashj performed the duties of her station with the utmost care and reverence. For there was nothing the naga did, no task they performed, that did not have as its ultimate purpose the glorification of Azshara. Even here in broken Outland so far away from the fathomless deeps they called home, and though they were in the service of Lord Illidan, the Queen's power would be manifest.

It was among the abandoned buildings of the draenei ruin that the dread naga waited eagerly, poised on the edge of anticipation. Their cunning eyes hungered, a multitude of barbed polearms and gleaming blades gripped tensely at the ready. Here they had gathered at their mistress' command, at the Ruins of Ba'ari, in order to seize control of the one source of clean water outside the cisterns of the Black Temple in Shadowmoon Valley. Battle was imminent, and the naga relished it like little else.

There was nothing Vashj did that did not reflect the glory of her beloved Queen. She moved among each group of her soldiers, to a one members of the Coilskar tribe, asking the blessings of Azshara upon their hearts and blades. Despite her unending discomfort with navigating land with a body that was not meant or designed for such a purpose, she nonetheless moved with her customary serpentine grace, her delicate hands making precise gestures to mark out the sacred spirals before each myrmidon and siren. Ever the loyal handmaiden to her Queen, as it had been for ten-thousand years and more, Vashj comported herself with beauty and poise as she slithered amongst her soldiers, calling forth the Queen's protection upon them for the coming battle. This, too, was part of her duty, and it had long since become second nature to her, even before the descent to the deeps. It was her first lesson, so long ago, when she first came to the palace at Zin-Azshari: as the waters of Eternity reflect the light of Elune, so too does a Handmaiden reflect the Light of Lights in all things. And as Vashj was exalted above all the Queen's Handmaidens, for countless millennia, she had come to signify that more than any other Priestess of the Tides. Her people recognized that, and the reverence with which they treated her passing movements was not lost on her. Secretly, she relished it, truth be told, though she would never openly admit as such. There was a kind of power in it, a kind of strength.

Thoughts of Azshara left her mind, however, when the blood elves emerged from a portal, led by their prince. Kael'thas Sunstrider was tall, regal and powerful, the epitome of grace, elegance, and golden beauty; a man of impeccable taste and good breeding, quick of wit and as utterly dangerous as he was even-tempered and fair. Young he was not, by any manner of mortal measure, but to her ancient eyes he shone with all the promise of youth. From the moment she met him on the shores of Alterac, he'd captivated her imagination. His sheer tenacity in the face of insurmountable odds was something she admired deeply about him. This was a man who had lost nearly everything that meant something to him, yet he persevered.

He was every bit Lord Dath'Remar's descendant; it showed in his every gesture, in his gift for manipulating the arcane, in his charisma and the overwhelming love he shared for his people. But to Vashj, he was no mere ally, or means to an end--but, truly, a friend…or so she'd believed. Perhaps that is why the distance he kept from her of late pained her so. 

Perhaps, too, there were other reasons for her discontent with him. But this was not for Vashj to contemplate; there was nothing but peril down that road. She was here to serve Lord Illidan, certainly, but she did so by the will of Azshara. All else was irrelevant in the eyes of her Queen. Never could she afford to forget that. Neither could she afford to entertain such idle fancies. There was work to be done.

" _Ishnu-dal-dieb_ , Vashj," Kael greeted her, affectionately clasping one of her free hands. With a demure incline of her head, she smiled enigmatically at him. The courtly mask she wore was as tightly affixed as ever. It, too, was second nature to her.

"And to you as well, good prince. I trust your people have been appropriately briefed?" she replied, slipping her hand from his, her tone coolly professional. A less observant person would have missed the faint flicker of emotion in his green eyes when she pulled away, but Vashj did not. Guilt, perhaps? Or something more?

"Akama's scouts have explained the situation, yes," Kael replied evenly, the brief hint of unease buried quickly beneath the commander's airs as he glanced at the plateau in the distance. "Have you come up with a plan for taking the main camp? We're sitting ducks unless we can somehow take those fel cannons out of the equation."

Vashj's eyes narrowed as she stared at the camp, the fel braziers that burned within it mere twinkling emerald lights from her vantage point. There were two bridges crossing the infernal lava flows: one directly west of their own camp there at the ruins, leading into the cistern, and a second across the geyser field. The cistern was a wide expanse dotted by the coveted steam pools, but beyond it lay only one narrow passage beyond the second bridge. The Legion's base was atop a tiered plateau with only one path leading up, and it bore the heaviest of the demonic resistance. A lesser force may have had some difficulty, but they were naga, and commanded the forces of the Deep.

"The dragon turtles will serve as a diversion. We'll send them in to draw the demons' attention," Vashj said. "The draenei can slip past the cannons and dismantle them, just as they did when we took the Temple. They'll make quick work of the mo'arg, as they did then. With the cannons neutralized, we should have little trouble."

Kael nodded. "A sound strategy. The blood elves stand ready, my lady. We'll follow your lead."

"Good," Vashj purred in reply. She finished blessing her soldiers in short order, then turned to address them. "Warriors of the Coilskar. We have but one objective: seize control of this cistern for the glory of Lord Illidan. And where there is water, the naga reign supreme." The hands that gripped her massive, golden longbow raised the shining weapon high in the air, the serpents upon her head writhing and hissing in grim anticipation. "For Nazjatar!"

The naga echoed her battle cry and plunged headlong down the stairs of the ruin, pouring across the bridge into the sparsely patrolled geyser field. Hulking myrmidons wielding even larger tridents and massive scimitars led the charge in tight formation, protecting the comparatively vulnerable sirens as they sang their discordant enchantments, the very ground beneath the handful of shadowy voidwalkers freezing them in place. Trapped by their frozen shackles, they were little more than target dummies for the myrmidons' blades. Cries of alarm sounded from the main camp, and felguards streamed down from the ridge, charging onto the field. The burly demons were armed to the teeth with razor sharp blades as big as naga, and they were fast, but so were the myrmidons. The field rang out with the clash of steel upon steel and barbed enchanted coral.

Vashj held back, as was her custom in combat, surveying the carnage from a distance to provide suppressive fire where she could and control the flow of battle; the full three-hundred-sixty degree field of vision afforded to her by the empathic link with her hair snakes made her well suited to such a task. A felguard broke away from the pack to charge straight for her, but the priestess was ready. Her practiced bow hands were quick and deadly, loosing shot after icy shot from Frostfathom in rapid succession to take down the foolish creature before it could even make it halfway to her location. The humid air around her sizzled and burned as she clenched the fingers of her casting hands and sent forks of lightning crackling towards a second felguard charging toward an unprotected siren, the chain reaction sending a pair of demons flying from sheer force. 

From behind, shifting her vision to the serpents at the back of her head, she spied Kael's forces joining the battle, even as she loosed a trio of frozen arrows into yet another demon. Once the naga were fully engaged, the elven prince raised a cry in Thalassian, and his spellsword leapt into brilliant flame when he drew it from the sheath. He led his small group of spellbreakers into the fray, mantle billowing behind him as he ran toward a pack of advancing felguards. Without stopping, he cleanly ran one through, impaling it in the throat, then sent a pillar of flame shooting out of the ground to engulf the others. As always, he was absolutely breathtaking to watch. With equal parts speed and grace, Kael cut the demons down with blade and spell alike, as though they were little more than kelp. His blood elves were no less skilled, the magisters timing their blasts of fire and arcane energy to match the sirens' attacks, the rangers providing cover for the myrmidons' charges with hails of arrows.

It was a short and brutal battle. Even the felguards, for all their prodigious strength, were little match for the combined forces of the naga and the sin'dorei. With a grim smile, Vashj swept an arm in a broad gesture toward the dragon turtle handlers, and the pair of naga warriors hissed sharply at the enormous creatures. They began their grim march across the second bridge, toward the main camp. Molten boulders engulfed in the bright putrid green--the telltale marker of fel energy--shot forth from the fel cannons, but they broke apart almost harmlessly upon the the razor sharp spines of the turtles' massive shells. They were like living siege engines, and their inexorable march continued unabated. 

That was the Ashtongues' cue. As soon as the last of the dragon turtles completed the crossing, and the creatures began to climb the hill, the draenei sprung into action. Emerging from the shadows along the ridge, they fell upon the cannons with vicious efficiency, tearing the demonic constructs apart with their kamas. The fel smiths who manned them were caught completely unawares, and though they slashed with their saw-hands at the draenei, it was entirely in vain; they were no match for the Ashtongues' sheer brutality and speed. When the last of the cannons fell, Vashj's eyes widened in triumph, and she slithered to the bridge.

"Go, my Coilskar! To the camp!" she shouted, waving her soldiers across as she began the climb up the hillside, sweeping her casting arms down to encase herself in a shimmering azure barrier of pure mana even as she moved. Vashj fell back once more at the summit, watching as the naga and blood elves alike who followed in her wake clashed with fire-breathing doomguards and succubi with vicious, barbed whips. The Ashtongue were correct in their reports that this area was much more heavily defended than the field. There were still a number of felguards, serving as shock troops for their foul brethren, but it was nothing Vashj's forces could not handle, particularly with the addition of the draenei to the fight. A doomguard flared its wings and reared back to breathe, but was soon overwhelmed by a hail of enchanted sin'dorei arrows and impaled by myrmidon tridents.

Satisfied with how the battle was proceeding, Vashj turned her attention elsewhere. Legion camps always had a commander, and in their previous clashes, resistance always seemed to crumble once they were taken out. If she could find and dispose of said commander, this mission would be over mere moments after it had begun. Scanning the battlefield with dozens of eyes in every direction made such a task child's play. From her side view, she spotted a structure some yards away, She cut a path to her right, firing nonchalantly upon a stray mo'arg tinker demon, and killed it without slowing her pace. Glancing to her left, she saw Kael shoot a blazing sphere of flame from his spellsword to immolate a doomguard, then spin on his heel with undeniable grace, long golden hair streaming about him, and run a succubus through with the blade. The ever present verdant spheres hovering about his head spun and flared as fel energy leeched from the pair of fallen demons and streamed into them. Vashj slithered across the field, and together they flanked a felguard charging for a blood elven archer, incinerating it with searing flame and lightning in tandem. When the smoking corpse collapsed to the rocky ground, their eyes met; Vashj smiled a wicked grin at the elven prince, which Kael returned with a smirk. Alone, each was a force to be reckoned with, formidable in their own right. Together, they were unstoppable. And they had fought together enough in these long months that it was almost second nature to them both.

Before she could react or even warn him, however, a barbed lash came flying toward him, wrapping tightly about his neck. His resplendent green eyes widened and he cried out in pain, desperately clawing at the cord with his free hand and slicing his fingers open upon the thorns in the process. As the succubus began to drain his life energy through the accursed lash, his fair complexion turned sallow, and he swooned. The sight of Kael in such agony filled Vashj with an inexplicable, towering fury.

"Get away from him, fiend!" Vashj screamed, firing a frost arrow with deadly precision toward the whip; it struck true, severing the lash to free Kael from its grasp, and he fell to his knees, his hand flying to his throat as he gasped for air. The demon scowled at Vashj, revealing a row of venomous teeth. Vashj pulled back the string of Frostfathom, nocking a frost arrow, but thought better of it. A simple arrow would not do, not for this one who dared harm Prince Kael. With towering anger, she instead raised her casting hands to the skies and hissed an enchantment in Nazja. The air swirled before her, forming a large, dark funnel cloud which enveloped the hapless demon. Vashj watched with a cruel, fanged smile etched upon her lips as the succubus spun into the air, flailing helplessly and screaming curses in the barbarity she called a language. Kael looked up at Vashj questioningly, but then the naga shoved her hands forward and sent twisting forks of lightning out from her webbed fingers, frying the succubus within the whirlwind.

"My thanks, Lady," Kael said, coughing lightly.

She took a deep breath, the momentary lapse of composure ended, and the courtly mask of the priestess returned. "You would have done the same for me," she said simply, and offered him a hand.

"Turnabout is fair play," Kael growled, reaching out with his bleeding hand to drain the dead succubus of her precious fel energy as she fell back to the ground.

The earth shook briefly; in the wake of the tremor, a towering shivarra emerged from the structure at the edge of the fray. In each of her six hands she bore a fel-forged blade of enormous heft, glowing in eerie brilliant green. Vashj smirked. Clearly, this was the demons' illustrious commander. She gripped the arrow that was previously readied, waiting for her to enter sights.

"Impudent fools! None shall escape the might of the Burning Legion!" the shivarra screamed, laughing sadistically, spittle flying from her mouth to dampen her veil. "Kil'jaeden's power is absolute, it is beyond your mortal comprehension, and you--you incompetent wastrels who have failed Him so, you shall be the first to suffer His wrath!" She threw back her head, laughing sadistically, and moved to leap at Vashj.

"Oh be silent, you ridiculous harlot," Vashj said with an irritated scowl. "I am a Priestess of the Tides, I fear nothing and no one. Give your master my regards--in the Hells." 

The shivarra roared and brandished her weapons at Vashj, but the naga loosed a frozen arrow through the fanatical demon's throat almost as an afterthought. She stumbled forward, and even managed to cast a shadowy bolt of energy toward Vashj, but it was absorbed by the glimmering sphere encasing her; the shield dissipated upon contact. With a triumphant, self-satisfied smirk, Vashj slithered over to the demon's dying form. The shivarra was twitching in her death throes, but still reached up with her multitude of arms to claw at Vashj as the naga placed two of her own hands on her face, holding the creature in a vice grip. "Tell your master that I serve an even greater one, one more cunning and powerful than you could ever imagine," Vashj snarled. "Underestimate the Lord of Outland at your peril."

With that, Vashj drew in her will and concentrated, sucking the vital energy from the dying shivarra. She grinned viciously as the emerald light faded from the demon's eyes and the glow wound its way up Vashj's own arms. The fel energy coursed through her, and the feeling was electric; her body tingled. This demon was a powerful one, with 'was' being the operative word. Of course, she was no match for a ten-thousand-year-old Naga priestess, but few were--whether in this wasteland, or anywhere else.

The shivarra's death sent the few remaining demons in the camp into a panicked frenzy, rendering them useless against their opponents and ripe for the picking. But before Kael and Vashj could congratulate one another on the victory, the ground shook again--this time violently. Vashj stumbled backward, her balance thrown, but Kael was by her side in an instant. He held onto her firmly as she righted herself, and she was silently grateful for his quick reflexes.

"What in the world--?" Vashj gasped, clinging a bit to him.

"Perhaps Gul'dan's spell left the region more unstable than we thought," Kael mused grimly. "It could be the volcano--"

Again, the ground shook. And a beat later, again. This was no quake--Vashj _knew_ quakes. Sea quakes were violent, chaotic upheavals with little discernible pattern to them at all. Though she was understandably far less familiar with the peculiarities of land, she could not think those that occurred outside the sea were all that different. No, this was far too rhythmic for any seismic event...more akin to a heartbeat, or rather footsteps.

A piercing sound, hollow and bloodcurdling, echoed through the skies above them, the reverberation so intense that Kael and Vashj felt it to their very bones. Vashj's casting hands flew protectively over her ears, and a second pair reflexively clung harder to Kael. This was no quake, nor was it the Hand of Gul'dan preparing to erupt. That was no natural, earthly sound.

The source soon made itself known. Out of the murky gloom, a sphere of eerie fel light appeared, and a second soon joined it.

They were eyes. 

And they were moving inexorably toward the Illidari forces.

***

The maze was hidden deep underground, its architecture replete with looping passages that doubled back on themselves, false walls, and dead ends. Illidan paid these no mind; he walked the complex halls with singular purpose. The faint streams of violet energy delineating the only safe path were clear to Illidan's demonic vision. Akama followed Illidan closely, his footsteps inaudible as always. 

The atmosphere within the maze was familiar and deeply disturbing, evoking bitter memories that would haunt him as long as he drew breath. Walls of earth and stone surrounding him, far beyond the reaches of any natural light. No sounds but his own breath, his own footsteps, and the constant, intermittent drip of water from some underground source, echoing against the flagstones. Only the silence of the earth here, unyielding and resolute. Only the darkness. This was entirely intentional, of course. The eerie similarities were meant to evoke such a feeling of desolation and misery. For ten thousand years, such feelings were all Illidan had known. It was only fitting that they be repaid in kind.

The trail of energy ended and they stood before their destination: a single, tiny cell carved into the bedrock, secured by bars of fel iron. Faintly-glimmering arcane runes covered the walls, shedding faint light on the occupant of the cell. She sat with her back turned to them; though she still wore her customary armor, she had shed her heavy mantle lest she be overcome by the oppressive heat. Illidan grinned broadly at the sight of her muted, shadowy form; gone was the bright, proud luminescence he remembered. There was no smugness in this one, not now.

"Have you come to torment me, then, Betrayer?" she spat contemptuously, keeping her back turned to him.

Illidan smirked. "Merely welcoming you to your new home, Warden Shadowsong. I trust you'll find it accommodating. You'll have all the time in the world to grow accustomed to it."

"Go to hell, Illidan," Maiev snarled.

"Not likely," he retorted. "I've already known hell, Maiev. Hell was endless centuries spent chained in darkness, by your hand. But you, little warden? The hell you planned for me is the one you will rot in."

Maiev rose to her feet and finally turned to face him, her expression defiant as her fists clenched around the bars which held her. "I don't know what game you're playing at, traitor," she growled. "But you're an even bigger fool than you were, if you think these walls will hold me. And when I'm free, there will be no place for you to run. Not even in this desolate wasteland. You will answer for your crimes at long last, and this time your brother won't be there to save you with his weak and foolish sentimentality. I will see your diseased blood spilled upon the stones of your own fortress for what you've done. My sisters cry out for it, and as the Goddess is my witness I will see justice done!"

Illidan simply laughed at her. Ever the proud and arrogant one, Maiev, always vainglorious and never willing to show any sign of weakness. But no matter how many empty threats she issued, no matter how she pretended to keep the upper hand, her predicament was clearly weighing on her already. Her fury was palpable, and it was like balm to Illidan's soul to see her in such a state, after all the pain she'd caused him. 

"Idle boasts. Perhaps a few centuries of confinement will bring your ego back down to reality," Illidan murmured. "Your vaunted brand of 'justice' has no place here, Maiev. Not in Outland. It is _my_ will that is law, not that of a petulant warden who never learned to leave well enough alone. And it is my will that you suffer as I did. You will know no peace, not so long as I draw breath. You will know no comfort. You will know nothing but unending misery in this place. Your fate was sealed the moment you foolishly chased me to this world."

"You will pay for this, Illidan. When I--"

Maiev's incessant squawking was mercifully cut short by a brief rumbling sound which shook the walls, then, sending small bits of loose rock falling from the ceiling to hit Illidan's shoulder. With idle irritation, he brushed the debris away. 

Akama, who'd remained silent during his master's trading of barbs with the prisoner, spoke up sharply. "Lord Illidan. The earth here is unstable, perhaps we should seek shelter. Quakes like these are often precursors to explosions on the mountain."

"This is no quake, Akama," Illidan said, narrowing his eyes behind the blindfold. "I spent thousands of years trapped below ground, long enough to become well acquainted with the earth's upheavals. This is something entirely different."

When the walls shook again, the sound was louder, closer, and the hairs on the back of Illidan's neck stood straight up at attention. The very air was suddenly sizzling with fel energy; he could smell and taste it, as though it were thick as smoke. Something was very wrong.

"Regardless, my lord," Akama insisted. "We should seek shelter. What of the prisoner?"

Illidan glared at him in contempt. "What of her?" With sweeping gestures of his arms and smaller, more precise mudras, he summoned forth a portal. If his instincts were correct--and they rarely weren't--this phenomena was no accident. Vashj and Kael had massed to the north, to seize control of the cistern from the Legion. It was likely the sign of a massive counteroffensive, and they needed his aid. "Return to the temple at once. I will handle this. And let the earth swallow Shadowsong whole, if it won't spit her back out."

Maiev howled in rage. "I will destroy you--"

Illidan summarily ignored her and half ran, half flew through the portal, hoping that he was not too late.

***

Vashj hurried to the cliffside to take stock of the creature, Frostfathom at the ready. The eyes belonged to a gargantuan demonic construct that appeared to be made of pure fel iron, doubtless fueled by concentrated fel energy. The monstrosity's high-pitched mechanical howling sent bloodcurdling vibrations through the air, the sound making Vashj's scales crawl and setting her fangs on edge.

Worse than the construct's size or its ear-shattering howl was its sheer speed: its long strides allowed it to effortlessly close the distance between itself and the Illidari forces. Nothing seemed to be able to slow it down; naga sorceresses sang their freezing glyphs upon the ground, but the construct simply crushed them as though they were nothing but a child's chalk drawings. The blood elven rangers were quick to react, setting down frost traps in the construct's path, but these too did nothing to slow its advance--it simply coasted effortlessly over the icy wake, and then slammed one colossal fist into the earth. The immense shockwave sent at least a dozen Myrmidons flying like rag dolls and knocked the rest of the troops nearby to the ground.

At this rate, the battlefield would quickly become but a charnel house.

"Fall back!" Vashj shouted as she summoned bolts of lightning and hurled them down to cover the retreat. "By the Tidehunter, _fall back_!"

But it was far too late for retreat. The creature was too fast, and the Illidari were already fully engaged. She could only watch helplessly as naga, draenei and blood elf alike were tossed about, beaten into the ground or hurled into the air by the creature's massive fists. Even the dragon turtles seemed unable to withstand the demonic assault. Vashj raised her casting arms high and lifted her voice in song, chanting in the ancient, otherworldly tongue of the elementals. From the steaming pools below her rose a team of enormous water spirits, and with a sweeping gesture she set them upon the construct, though it dwarfed them in size. They hovered protectively over a group of naga priestesses, allowing them to fall back to relative safety within the mouth of a cave.

The creature looked up sharply, its huge glowing eyes filled with hollow malice. It charged toward Vashj with singular purpose, and reared back to deliver a blow no one could have survived. "Do your worst," she hissed, encasing herself in a shimmering sphere of pure arcane energy.

But another cry pierced through the din of battle then, one now familiar and very welcome indeed. As Vashj let loose a hail of frost arrows to pierce the construct's hateful eyes, a fiery red-gold streak descended toward her like a meteor. 

"Vashj!" Kael cried, swooping down astride his phoenix Al'ar, hand outstretched. Vashj immediately grabbed hold of the bird and Kael in equal part and clung to his waist, serpents streaming behind her as they took to the skies. Al'ar's speed was too much for even the construct to best; it swung feebly at the heat-rippled air and sparks of the phoenix's wake.

"A timely rescue," the priestess thanked him. "But I fear it may be for naught. I have never seen such a creature, not even when demons filled Zin-Azshari!"

Kael openly scowled in frustration. "Damn it! There has to be a way to stop this thing--"

They narrowly avoided a rapid swipe of its fist with a heartstopping barrel roll and dove between its legs to escape. When they righted and soared back up, Vashj noticed something peculiar about the massive bars on the construct's chest. The blinding emerald light that shone out from between them concealed a massive lump of some strange metal. As she watched, it expanded and contracted, beating like a heart.

"Turn back, Kael!" she cried. "I have an idea!"

Al'ar banked left at her command, and flew straight toward the construct. Vashj's casting fingers curled and twisting bolts of lightning shot out from them, arcing across the bars to fry the heart within. Just as she believed it would, the creature reared back in obvious pain, letting out another of its horrific cries. Vashj grinned viciously, her eyes narrowing in grim satisfaction. "We have our answer, young prince!" she crowed smugly.

"Somebody get that cage open!" Kael barked, his voice amplified by magical intent. It seemed his thoughts were in accord with her own. The Ashtongue leapt into action at his command, using their kamas as grappling hooks to climb the creature's legs, even as a wave of shimmering violet missiles and white hot fireballs pierced the air and slammed into the glowing fel core in rapid succession. It reared back to stomp the ground again, this time in an apparent attempt to shake the draenei scaling it, but to no avail; their grim climb continued, until they reached the protective cage, and with powerful blows they set their blades to the bars. Sparks flew, and the screeching sound of twisting steel accompanied their grim work.

"Concentrate everything you have on its heart!" Kael shouted down to his troops, when the bars began to split apart. "Capernian!"

"Yes, my Prince!" A single blood elven mage, black hair whipping behind her, twirled her staff with a dramatic flourish and aimed it not at the heart, but directly at the creature's head, now still enough for a clear shot; she was followed by a trio of others. It burst into searing orange flame and it stumbled back, flailing wildly in disorientation. The draenei were at last shaken from the creature and plummeted, but their rapid descent was halted to a slow float by a blood elf priest and they touched the ground in safety. Vashj and Kael began rapidly casting in tandem, sending twisting coils of flame and lightning shooting towards their glowing target in quick succession. It swooned backward, screaming that terrible cry once more, and Vashj laughed. Surely the tide had turned.

It was then that another roar shattered the sky, one very familiar and altogether welcoming to Vashj. She glanced up, and saw him winged in silhouette against the shadow of Azeroth; he was breathtaking in his majesty and the cresting power of his dark fury, a hellish god engulfed in the shadow of the void and infernal flame in equal measure. And with a second bellowing roar and flare of his massive wings, he made a spectacular dive toward the stumbling creature. He careened down through the darkened skies like some demonic falling star, hurling himself horns first, firing like an arrow with the full force of his body directly into the exposed fel heart.

Illidan, Lord of Outland, would not be shamed or bested upon his own domain.

The construct screamed a final death-cry as Illidan tore straight through its chest cavity and emerged from its back, tumbling gracefully on the ground to come to a halt upon flaming hooves. The fallen construct collapsed in a silent heap upon the earth, with one last quake.

Vashj had to physically remind herself to exhale, her breath caught in her throat. He was beyond magnificent to behold in such form, rippling musculature of glossy deepest violet, shadows swirling about him, his bat-like wings even larger than they normally were. His sheer sense of presence was overwhelming, an immensity of dark power virtually pouring off him in waves. She bit her lip, her blood racing as her eyes traced glances across his body.

And she was not alone in her admiration. Kael's eyes were gleaming as he set his bird gently down to ground. "Master," he whispered in reverence, bowing his head.

Illidan rose to full height then, his wings spread to full majestic span, and pumped a clawed and triumphant fist in the air; cheers erupted from the gathering forces, a cacophony of hissing naga oaths and the lighter, melodic shouts of the sin'dorei.

Vashj smiled when Kael dismounted, and raised his hands up toward her. "May I, my Lady?" he asked with a meaningful raise of his brows.

Ever the gentleman, Prince Kael. Vashj nodded and leaned forward, allowing him to lift her from the phoenix's back. He was rather stronger than she expected; she was hardly light, but he held the full weight of her torso with little trouble as she slid her tail down to the ground. The feeling was not unpleasant, and she found herself suppressing a mild pang of disappointment when he politely released her from his firm grip.

"That was rather exhilarating," she quipped with a slight, coy smile.

"Perhaps we should try it again under more pleasant circumstances," Kael suggested, his expression faintly roguish.

Clever boy, that one.

Al'ar cooed then, tucking her head beneath Kael's outstretched hand for petting. She was truly a magnificent creature, one suitably majestic to serve as Kael's guardian, Vashj thought. With a golden shimmer, the bird vanished, leaving only softly glowing embers in her wake. She was not long vanished when Illidan strode toward them, reverted to his customary form with warglaives once more in hand.

"Your timing was impeccable, Master," Kael said, and Vashj made a silent chuckle at the echo of Illidan's own words toward them when they first rescued him from the night elves in Hellfire. "But we did have things under control."

Illidan quirked an eyebrow, and the faintest of grins was etched upon his lips. "Certainly," he said, his tone as dry as the Shadowmoon air. "But this was a welcome victory, regardless. You've done well this night, Vashj."

"Thank you, my lord," she said with a gracious nod. "The sin'dorei were of tremendous help, as always."

"I was glad to be of assistance," Kael said. He glanced over at the enormous, still smoking heap on the ground with a calculating expression in his eyes. "Telonicus!" he shouted.

The Master Engineer jogged forward, red hair plastered against his sweat-soaked brow, but none the worse for wear considering the ferocity of the fighting. "My Prince?" he asked curiously, with a brief salute.

"I want you and your team to salvage this...monstrosity. Learn what you can of its make, and structure. I don't want to be caught by surprise again, and perhaps it will be of use," Kael said. Telonicus nodded.

"Yes, my Prince," he obediently replied, then beckoned toward his comrades, and together they strode toward the fallen construct. 

"Good thinking, Kael. Better we seize its remains than the Legion," Illidan agreed. He rolled a shoulder, idly twirling one of his massive glaives. "I don't relish the thought of facing that again."

"I would face an army of them if it meant seeing you unleash such fury upon them," Kael replied impishly, his tone on the verge of purring, and Illidan stared at him with heavy lids. It was another loaded glance exchanged between them as though she were not even present, as though they were the only two beings in the world and nothing else mattered. No one else.

Vashj turned away, lowering her gaze upon some meaningless crack on the ground, lest her discomfort become obvious. Awkwardness was not a feeling to which she was accustomed; it was not one she'd known for countless millennia, but it was as ubiquitous in their presence as the emerald glow of fel power in the valley. It was not a feeling she particularly relished, to put it mildly. But as always, there was her dignity to consider, and the propriety of such emotions. Always dignity and propriety where she was concerned, as it had been drilled into her in perpetuity from the time she was still a young night elf until the Sea claimed her and became salvation. And thus she would remain, flotsam in the tempest's wake, to serve as graciously as she always had despite her feelings. They would know nothing else from her. They could not.

She tilted her head in curiosity then, suddenly--thankfully--distracted by the faint impression of rushing water beneath her tail. It was not the bubbling of the steam pools, however; it was more substantial movement, a flowing current of energy. Comforting.

"Lady Vashj?" Kael asked. "Are you well?"

"There is more water here. I can sense it," she said, entirely avoiding the hidden nuance of his question.

"Go, then," Illidan commanded. "Scout out the area further, and start setting up camp. I'm returning to the temple."

"At once, my lord," Vashj said. "The Coilskar can hold this territory with little issue, I believe."

"I'll return to the temple, then. Coming, Kael?"

Kael paused thoughtfully, glancing back at her. "I'll be there later, Master," he answered. "I have a bit of unfinished business to tend to."

"Very well," Illidan said with a shrug, then opened a portal and vanished through it.

Vashj said nothing to Kael when they were left behind, and merely slithered away, silently cursing the fool for not leaving well enough alone.

***

It was a long and silent journey through the cave beside the steam pools, and more than a little awkward. Kael followed her nonetheless, through the caverns to an immense and silent grotto. He caught his breath--never could he have imagined that such a desolate place as Shadowmoon Valley could hold such breathtaking beauty hidden from sight. Water cascaded down from an opening high above into a small pool, and softly shimmering crystals filled the chamber with an ethereal glow in a scintillating rainbow of colors. It was magnificent to behold.

"There are many such places within Nazjatar, though this one pales in comparison," Vashj said a bit wistfully, slithering toward the pool to gaze upon her reflection in the gentle waters, and it seemed to Kael that she was suddenly a world away. It never occurred to him how she must have felt being so far away from the only home she'd known for so long, in a world her body was ill suited for.

He wasn't the only one who felt longing for the comforts of home. He felt guilty, then, that he had never thought of what she may have been going through being so far from the sea she loved. There was so much guilt where Vashj was concerned, it seemed. Too much, for his liking.

"My lady, if I could speak plainly..." he started.

"By all means, Kael," Vashj said softly. "We are friends, and there is little need to stand on ceremony. Friends should bear no secrets from one another."

Kael didn't know how she always did that, how she always managed to pierce right through him with her words as though they were her arrows. Few others in his life ever could. "We need to talk," he said.

"If you believe so," she replied, slithering away. "I am listening."

Kael sighed, and took a deep breath. There was no point in trying to sugarcoat this; Vashj was too perceptive and they both had too much pride. He simply had to trust that his heart wouldn't fail him, even if his eloquence did. "I'm sorry we didn't tell you about us," he began. "Things just happened so suddenly, and there was so much going on--I didn't know when, or how to tell you. I'm so sorry."

"So...at last, it comes to this. I was wondering when it would, how long you would think to play the fool with me, as though I were as blind as he. I know what happened in Northrend."

He sighed again, rubbing his temples. "I never wanted to hide anything from you, Vashj. I've been a coward and a fool," he insisted. "I just--I never wanted to hurt you. I know what he means to you."

Vashj looked up sharply, her eyes narrowing to mere slits, and even Kael flinched involuntarily from that penetrating gaze. "No, Kael. That, you do _not_."

"Tell me then," he said with the utmost empathy. "I want to know."

For just one moment, the courtly mask of the regal high priestess slipped, and he could see the pain in her softly glowing eyes. It was ancient pain, this, deep and unceasing, and it marked her delicate, alien features like scars from a long past battle. He feared his heart would break, seeing her like this, and without a second thought he instinctively reached out to her, taking her by one of her hands. She flinched from him.

"You do not know what you ask of me, Kael. You cannot know," she sighed, slipping her hand away from his grasp to reach up and caress the golden choker clasped around her neck. Not a choker, Kael realized, but a collar--the collar of a slave. A well-heeled and elegant one, but a slave nonetheless. "For one such as I, bearing the mark of my Queen, such notions are impossible. I am Hers, and Hers alone, with all that I am. I cannot entertain such thoughts. They are forbidden, and have been for as long as She has reigned."

Anger rose within Kael, a searing anger. Not for himself, or Illidan, but for this proud, noble woman who had clearly never lived a day with a thought for her own feelings. He understood the allure of submission, all too well, but this was far different than the games of dominance he played with Illidan. There was as much power in submission as there was in control, perhaps more. And it all rested upon the trust they had for one another. But what Vashj implied was entirely different--it was cruel, this submission borne not from trust but fear. "How long have you suffered, Vashj? How long have you been her slave? When have you ever known happiness for your own sake? Have you ever?"

The silence that greeted him was the most poignant answer he could have received. It was damning, and suffocating.

"I am High Priestess of Nazjatar. I dwell at the right hands of She Who Rules the Tides, exalted above all others in my Queen's sight. My Queen's pleasure is my own," she replied, slithering into the pool, and it seemed to Kael like a rote response, a ritualistic one, one that she had perhaps repeated so many times that she possibly even believed it.

"You're a poor liar, Vashj. And you speak of her like she's some kind of god...but no god is worth this kind of suffering. Do you love her, or do you fear her?"

Her angular eyes lowered then, and her long fingernails, so delicately painted with golden lacquer, clamped down upon the collar. "You do not understand, Kael. You cannot. You don't know what it is to live and serve for ten-thousand years and more at her pleasure. To see countless multitudes beyond numbering rise and fall in her favor like the tide. I love Her, yes, and I fear Her in equal measure. As it has always been and as it should be. Queen Azshara is as Eternal as the Deep--as Eternal as Her domain. I speak of Her in such fashion because She _is_ a God, and more, to my people. I could no more betray Her than I could betray the currents that rule us, because She is the greatest of currents, She rules our very existence. And betrayal is what you ask of me, Kael. Do not mistake it for anything less."

"What I ask of you is to think of your own desires, for your own sake," Kael said. "Not for me, not even for Illidan. Not because he needs you, for what power you have or what fodder you can bring to the field. Because you deserve no less. For Light's sake, has anyone ever told you that? Has your precious queen ever told you that you deserve to be happy? That you have the right to love, and be loved?"

Vashj folded a set of arms and rested her cheek upon the edge of the pool, hair-serpents laid flat upon the stone in quiet repose. And for perhaps the first time since he met her, she seemed terribly vulnerable. How long had it been since she let her guard down like this? Had she ever? "Never," she whispered, as though she were afraid to speak the admission aloud, for what it would mean.

Kael reached up to undo the golden clasp at his neck and shrugged off his heavy mantle, letting it fall to the cavern floor. He then slipped off his boots and waded into the water with little care for his remaining fine garments. He needed to be near her, to meet her where she was and show her the comfort she had never permitted herself. "Well, you do. You deserve to be happy. With whomever you please."

"It's not that simple, Kael," she sighed. He waded to her side, waist-deep in the pool, his long golden hair floating upon the water's surface.

"Shouldn't it be?" he said, and placed a comforting hand on her back. Just as he was when he helped her down from Al'ar, he was astonished then by how soft and smooth her scales were. They felt more like rich, lush velvet than anything he expected from a creature of the sea.

"It never is. Not for those such as us," she said, her head still turned from him.

"Why can't it be?"

Vashj smiled, in spite of herself. "So like Dath'Remar, you are. You share his abject stubbornness and refusal to accept reason."

"So I've been told on any number of occasions by my father," Kael chuckled. He kneaded her shoulder, and she seemed to relax a bit. "But you never answered my question, and I need to know why you believe I can't understand what it is you feel for Illidan. Because I want to understand, Vashj. For your sake."

She remained silent for a long, agonizing moment, and Kael feared that he may have overstepped his bounds with her. But then she turned, shifting her weight to rest her head upon his shoulder. "I first met Illidan ten-thousand years ago, before the world's Sundering. I was still a night elf, then. We all were, dwelling upon the shores of the Well of Eternity."

Kael was not expecting that; he'd never held the impression that they'd previously known each other. If they had, Illidan certainly never indicated as such.

"I was Chief Handmaiden to Queen Azshara, hand selected as the most beautiful and powerful of her servants," Vashj continued, with no small amount of pride in her voice. "But this was during the time you know as the War of the Ancients, when the Legion was first drawn to Azeroth. I'm sure you know the tale."

The way she so casually spoke of such ancient history was mildly unsettling to Kael, but it was nothing he hadn't heard from Illidan. "That, I do," he replied.

"And I'm sure Illidan has told you about when he was chosen by Sargeras, when he received those dark gifts--trading his mundane eyes for the second sight of his visions, being marked with the Titan's own runes and sigils. Those gifts came with a steep price, and he spent days in excruciating pain. At times, he was delirious, others he simply passed out because his body simply could not take any more. It was my duty by order of the Queen Herself to care for him. I bathed him and dressed his wounds, I brought him food and wine. It was Her will that I ease his suffering in whatever way possible. Save one, of course. That was reserved for the Queen."

Kael blinked. "I don't follow your meaning...?"

"You must understand, Kael. To be a Handmaiden is to be bound by severe oaths," Vashj explained. "Our bodies, our minds, our souls, and our hearts are not our own. Everything we are and will yet be is given in deepest surrender to the Queen. We become Hers, with the fullest measure of our very being. To even touch a Handmaiden without the Queen's permission is to invite death. On occasion, she permitted the other Handmaidens to pleasure each other for her own amusement, and when she grew bored she would give them over to her favored servitors as a reward--only to cast them out for impurity. But never I. As Chief Handmaiden, I was the most beautiful, I was Her greatest prize, to keep under lock and key and the tightest control. From the moment I entered Her service, I knew no kiss, no touch, but Hers. I knew no affection or pleasure beyond that which She granted me."

Kael shook his head in disbelief. "How could you submit to such a monstrous form of control, to not even have agency over your own body? How could you live like that?"

"It was the greatest of honors among our people. It meant the ultimate in status--that the Light of Lights Herself, exalted by the very heavens, would deem you worthy of Her affection? It meant everything. And to be exalted above all others of such station was a greater honor still. Many would have killed for it. Many tried. But I was always far more cunning than the rest. One did not rise to such position without such cunning. And truthfully, the Queen relished it. She delights in watching others fight and wrangle with one another over her favor. She always has. It is a rare thing to earn it through no intent of one's own, and Illidan had--with his beauty, his boldness, his skill at the arcane arts--all the qualities you so adore in him. He had them even then, as an impetuous youth. They enchanted me as well, but there was little I could do about it. The Queen desired him, and I was sworn to Her."

The prince took a deep breath, suppressing a sudden pique of rage. The way she spoke, Vashj and her sisters were little more than concubines in a gilded cage, puppets dancing to the demented strings of a cruel and narcissistic monster. It was beyond reason, and to think this was all Vashj had known for thousands of years was almost too much to contemplate. In his younger days, he'd bemoaned his relative lack of freedom as prince and heir to the High Throne, but that seemed downright childish in comparison. His father had never forbidden him Rommath's affection, after all. "If you were her prized possession, why did she make you see to Illidan? Why not assign some lesser Handmaiden to the task? Surely she must have known what could happen," Kael said.

"This, I do not know, even to this day," Vashj admitted. "Beyond it being a show of Her great favor toward him, I cannot say. The Queen was no fool, and must have known that I went to him out of the longing of my own heart rather than Her will, after a time. Perhaps She knew I lusted for him, and it filled Her with amusement to see me so tortured, to see me ache with desire for him and claim it for Herself. Not even I, who have served Her for so long, can fully understand Her mind. She is a creature of such whims."

"How on earth did you cope? It must have been agony, spending so much time doting on him, but never allowed to..."

She smiled a bit wickedly, then. "I danced the blade's edge as closely as I dared. Perhaps my hands lingered in certain places, a touch here, a caress there, beyond that which was customary for a bath. I took my time massaging the healing balms and warm oils into his skin, easing his tension, and sometimes his cares simply melted away in my firm grasp. He was always appreciative, though he was well aware of the Queen's will. My hands were quite skilled, after all, and his burdens were...great, even then, when he was still fully kaldorei."

"A dangerous game to play," Kael said with the utmost sympathy, even as he found his imagination captivated by the images she painted with her words, his blood racing a bit faster through his veins. He idly slid a hand down to rest upon the small of her back, just above her tail. For her part, she seemed to like it; she squirmed a bit against him, and the sensation was not at all unpleasant.

"Indeed," she agreed with a bit of a purr. "But I was young and foolish, with stars in my eyes. When I found out that Tyrande was being held in the palace, I went to her. She was High Priestess of Elune, and I thought to seek her vision, where Illidan's feelings were concerned. As I said, I was young and foolish." Vashj's eyes narrowed, her expression turning on a dime to bitter hatred. "She mocked me, and refused. She boasted that she didn't need to ask the Goddess to tell me how Illidan felt. He had loved her since they were children, even though she preferred his brother. So great was his love for her that he could never feel that way for another, and I was wasting my time."

Kael didn't know what to say. The Tyrande he knew would never have spoken such base cruelties, but was it really his place to argue? Perhaps Vashj had interpreted her words through the lens of her own passions and read malice into them where none was intended, aided by the long years of bitterness to cloud her memory. Or perhaps Tyrande had lashed out in frustration against someone she saw as one of her captors. Even the most level-headed people could succumb in such situations, even without the stirring emotions of youth to render them headstrong. He knew all too well. "What happened then?"

"When Dath'Remar and the others betrayed the Queen--when they joined the commoners in their rebellion, Illidan fled with Tyrande in tow," she sighed, her irritation passed. "When I learned of his imprisonment, I wept, and not a day passed that my thoughts did not turn to him and how he must have suffered. I wondered if there had been more I could have done, in futility. But those days were filled with madness, and I know there was nothing. I bore my love for him in silence."

"All this time..." Kael whispered incredulously, and it truly was astounding to believe. It was one thing to understand it on an intellectual level, quite another to hear the pain of her words from her own mouth. He reflexively held her tighter. "Gods, Vashj."

She clung to him a little, his rich robe of crimson and gold bunched in a plethora of soft hands. "This dull ache, this sorrow, is something I have carried within me for almost as long as I can remember. The pain of her words has remained with me still, even when I answered his call at the behest of my Queen and my heart soared to see him once again, more beautiful and powerful than I ever remembered. They twisted within me every time he spoke her name, a bitter reminder of what I could never have. I was content to nurse this wound forever in the knowledge that nothing would ever change, there would always be that accursed Tyrande, her name entwined in his heart with room for no other, for as long as immortality graced us," she said.

"Then I came along," Kael sighed, his heart sinking, and he finally understood, the crushing guilt weighing down on him as badly as it ever had, perhaps at its worst. For ten-thousand years, she'd suffered the pain of unrequited love in silence, only to watch some young upstart sweep in and capture Illidan's affections in a way no one else had.

She continued, unabated, closing her eyes. "But then...there was you. You changed everything, you gave breath to new life within him and suddenly, new possibilities. You rendered everything I had ever told myself a bitter, wretched lie. There _was_ room in Illidan's heart for another; you proved it, you beautiful, terrible prince. But it could not matter to me, no matter how dearly I wished it so. Because it could never be my name upon his lips the way yours is. It must never be me. It cannot. It is as forbidden now as it was ten-thousand years ago in a darkened chamber in Zin-Azshari and I was a young kaldorei girl filled with desire. He can never be mine. I can never be his. It is not _permitted_ , it has never _been_ permitted, and to wish otherwise is a betrayal of everything I have ever believed in. It is blasphemy to love him, Kael'thas. To love you--"

Kael's eyes widened in absolute shock. Bitter tears streamed down her face and all he could do was sit there, gaping. All this time, he'd been consumed by fear and guilt over her feelings for Illidan, utterly consumed by it, and it had never once occurred to him that perhaps the hurt in her eyes that day in Northrend was only half caused by Illidan's use of that old kaldorei endearment. He had never thought to believe that she could have been harboring similar feelings for him.

But it made sense, a terrible kind of perfect sense now that he considered it. Certainly, she could not hope to find Illidan on her own, and even had she done so, her force of naga would not have been enough to fight back against Maiev and her wardens should they have proved themselves a nuisance once more. Kael was not nearly naive enough to believe Vashj's offers of assistance stemmed entirely from unfettered altruism borne from their common ancestry. But there was more it than that, more to this genuine friendship that had developed between them than naked self-interest. She listened, without a passing word of judgment, whenever he was frustrated. In combat, she always had his back, and he could always trust her to be there. More than once, she'd saved his life. She was just always there, a quiet presence and source of unspoken strength in his life since this improbable journey began. And never once did he consider why she was, or why it felt so very right.

" _Anar'alah belore_..." Kael gasped, squeezing her tightly against him. "Oh, Vashj."

"I cannot!" she wailed helplessly, her pain echoing off the cavern walls as she sobbed against him. "I am Hers. I cannot be anything else. No matter how I wish it so--"

"She's not here," Kael said, stroking her back, "but we are."

"She is everywhere," Vashj hissed. "We are naga. She is in our very _souls_."

"I am Prince of the sin'dorei," Kael said gently, taking her delicate, pointed chin lightly in his grasp. "And there's nothing in my soul but pain for what was done to my people, the desire for justice, and hope for the future. You gave me that hope, Vashj. Without you, none of this would have been possible. I would have died lost and forgotten, imprisoned in a place I once thought was my home. You gave me answers to questions I did not know to ask, and a path to lead my people back to glory."

"A debt, then?" she said bitterly. "Is that what all this is about?" 

Kael shook his head, and caressed her cheek, wiping her tears away. "No, beautiful lady, not a debt. Something far deeper than that, and far more simple: affection, and I realize that now. You deserve better. And I am sure Illidan feels the same. You should tell him how you feel, he may surprise you."

"To what end?" she cried in frustration. "Have you not listened to a word I've said? It cannot be, even if he did return these feelings."

"Vashj," Kael said solemnly, gazing deep into her eyes, watching the torrent of emotions play out in the subtle shifts of her expression. "We're a damned long way from Nazjatar."

"But that doesn't mean we can afford to make an enemy of the Queen, not when we already have one in Kil'jaeden. I am here because She allows it."

"Nonsense," Kael retorted. "You're here because you want to be. You have more freedom here than you've ever known. I see the way your people look at you with devotion. There is no Azshara here in Outland, they look to _you_ as their leader. And I think some part of you deep down loves that you're finally being shown genuine respect, not mere deference out of fear for your proximity to the queen."

"You tread dangerous waters," Vashj warned, pulling away from him.

"Don't you find it strange that she hasn't summoned you back?" he asked her pointedly. "You, the shining jewel in her crown? If she cherishes you so deeply, why didn't she send reinforcements when Illidan was bested at Dalaran? You know her better than anyone. This is a game she's playing at, and sooner or later she's going to tire of it. And then what? Has she ever shown the kind of blind loyalty you've shown her--"

"Enough!" Vashj interjected. "You go too far, Kael."

"Perhaps you haven't gone far enough." he sighed. "But I apologize. I was just speaking the truth as I see it, but it's not my place. I only want you to be happy, Vashj. You deserve better than this endless life of self-denial and heartache, no matter what you decide. I want you to know that. You're better than this."

She sighed deeply, lowering her eyes. "I envy you," she confessed. "It all comes so effortlessly to you. Even Rommath worships you."

He waded close to her again, drawing to full height, and took her face gently into his hands once more. "Vashj, Rommath is my oldest and dearest friend. I've loved him since we were children. But that doesn't mean I love Illidan any less." Kael lifted her chin so that he could gaze into her softly glowing eyes again, to see the emotion behind that sparkling amber glow. "Or you."

Without a second thought, he closed his eyes and leaned in close, pressing his lips against hers. They were warm, soft, and yielding, and he couldn't help but be swept up in the feeling of bliss welling inside him. She wrapped all six of her arms around him tightly, melting into his embrace. Emboldened, he slipped his tongue inside her mouth, warm and inviting and altogether different than what he might have expected. The hunger with which she returned the kiss was nearly overwhelming and threatened to devour him; hers was a passion that ran as deep as the tides she called home.

"I'll be waiting for you, Vashj," Kael breathed, his eyes smoldering as he pulled away from her grasp. "We both will."

He turned from her and climbed out of the pool, conjuring a portal home with a sweeping gesture of his bare arms. But this time, he left it open behind him, ready and waiting for her to seize it at any time, and thought it was a fitting gesture. It meant there was a place for her in their lives, if she so desired, and there would always be a place there. Kael felt it in the deepest recesses of his heart, that Illidan was no longer the bitter and wounded man he once was after thousands of years spent pining for a woman who could never return his love. Like Al'ar rising from the ashes, a purifying flame had burned through his heart and made everything new again. There was a place for Vashj, and Kael believed it with the deepest sincerity. But she had to be the one to take that step. She had to realize that there was no going back to Nazjatar, not now. It was something she had to learn for herself.

And when she did, they would be waiting.


	9. Pride of the Sin'dorei

The Lady Vashj was not within the aqueducts. It was the same answer, day after day, whether delivered by siren or hulking Fathom-Lord, from within the watery depths of the temple that no Illidari tread but the naga: Her Eminence the Lady Vashj is not within the aqueducts, your Highness, and begs your apologies; she is attending to matters of import to Lord Illidan at the cistern, and will return hence.

Kael was not certain how the immortal denizens of Nazjatar defined the term "hence", or whether the passage of time flowed differently in the fathomless depths, but he was quite certain that "hence" meant somewhat sooner than several weeks, and that no possible matter of import would be taking that long at Coilskar Cistern--which was not so very large a base, but merely a grotto and a collection of steam pools. He knew this well, as he and his soldiers aided in claiming them a fortnight past. Scouting a network of caves was no matter of import for a priestess of the tides, nor was overseeing basic construction. The Coilskar matron Lady Shav'rar had that matter well in hand--all four of them.

But that grotto weighed heavily upon Kael, and it was why he sought Vashj out day after day, only to be rebuffed. He had not seen or spoken to her since the aftermath of the battle, when everything changed between them, and a rift he sought to bridge somehow shrank and grew wider at once. Kael knew when he was being avoided, and he only had himself to blame, perhaps, for giving voice to truths best left unsaid, and feelings best left forgotten.

And he assuredly did not speak of what transpired in the grotto to Illidan. Kael loved her, he realized it then, and he would not do that to her. It must be her choice, her will. Kael was not Azshara; he did not view people as toys or as gilded lyres to be played for his amusement.

So he did not send another message, after the latest. The invitation lay open between them, just as he left it within the grotto. It would have to be enough.

Fortunately--or perhaps not, and this relied greatly on his moods--Kael had quite a few of his own matters-of-import to occupy himself with, rather than his sordid personal affairs. After a light morning refreshment, he made his way about the temple grounds, making his daily rounds. That day, Illidan conferred with the orc Kargath Bladefist, self-styled Warchief of the Fel Horde, and they were presently in conference in the war chamber. It was one conference for which Kael would not be present, by choice. Illidan did not press the issue.

It made Kael's blood run cold. He could not help but repress an internal shudder, watching the delegation of orcish warriors in their ghastly armor of dull steel covered in sharp spikes from head to toe, puffing out their chests and shouting oaths. Ostensible allies as they may have been, he was not glad to see them roaming the halls of the temple, spitting and snarling like wild dogs, little more civilized than the raging felboars that roamed the jagged plains outside. The likes of these orcs had once set the forests of southern Quel'Thalas to the torch, driven by the same demon masters Illidan sought to destroy.

To Illidan, they were little more than fodder. Kael knew that. Perhaps even Bladefist himself knew it. All that seemed to matter to him, however, was that his clans had access to the blood of a captive pit lord, to gorge themselves upon and grow in power. They lined up like pigs at a trough to feast, and Bladefist did not seem to care that they fattened themselves up for slaughter.

It was a sobering thought. Kael stared at burning crystals pulsating with energy, and felt the vibration of a smaller one in the pocket of his own robes. His people scarcely marked his presence as he drifted through the halls. The sin'dorei gathered here and there, in small groups or singularly, transfixed upon the eerily-glowing crystals as they drew bright green energy from them.

Already, their eyes were beginning to change. He'd noticed it first with Rommath, and then himself, during this sojourn in Outland...the vivid emerald glow where once shone tranquil blue. It was like the glow that shone from Illidan's unnatural eyes of fel iron, but perhaps somewhat more unnerving to Kael; he'd believed it was the steel, the mark of Sargeras, that made Illidan's eyes gleam so. Now, he knew better.

Would it stop with their eyes? He wondered, even as he reached inside his pocket for a crystal to drain, even as the adrenaline raced through his veins along with the fel energy. Kael laughed darkly to himself for a moment as he savored the pleasant tingling sensation, and thought of Rommath bearing great bat's wings like Illidan, and perhaps even horns.

It was not a displeasing thought, he had to admit. But then he saw the orcs, with their sunken eyes and leathery skin in unnatural shades of red, and shuddered again. Perhaps that was the difference between simply draining fel energy and consuming the blood of demons. He dearly hoped that was the case.

Kael left morbid thoughts behind once he reached the vast courtyard at the foot of the temple. He glanced up to see dragonhawk riders flitting across darkened skies toward the Sanctum of the Stars, some miles to the southwest. His thoughts turned to the missive he'd received earlier that morning from such a courier sent from the facility. In the months since its establishment following the Illidari seizure of the Black Temple, it had become the foremost sin’dorei magical research facility outside of the Magister’s Terrace, the epicenter of their knowledge in Outland.  

It was also the closest thing the sin’dorei had to a base entirely of their own, outside the sprawling temple complex shared by the other Illidari factions. Quarters were growing increasingly tight there despite the losses the sin'dorei had taken in the disastrous Northrend campaign, as reports came, and this was one of the reasons Kael was of a mind to meet with the magisters there that day. But he'd seen it with his own eyes, and it was of growing concern to him. The library had grown beyond its capacity; tomes and scrolls collected by the forward scouts from across the shattered world were trickling in daily for cataloguing and study, and no longer fit neatly upon the shelves; some were stacked tidily beside them, others almost strewn haphazardly. Atop the facility, the traditional astromancer's observatory with its massive rotating tellurion--the most distinctive hallmark of an elven arcane sanctum--also contained a most _untraditional_ rookery for the spymasters to ply their trade, and even a small aerie with a clutch of dragonhawk eggs.  

While there were other, smaller bases established by the sin'dorei forces, notably the elite Eclipsion, the majority of the sin'dorei army was housed in the Black Temple, where there was little in the way of space for research. The naga themselves had established Coilskar Point for their own purposes, and even the demons loyal to Illidan had their own base outside the temple at Illidari Point, keeping an eye on both Legion Hold and the dormant stronghold of Kurdran Wildhammer, a veteran of the Alliance expedition that was sent to this world in the wake of the Second War some decades earlier.

(Kael noted rather bitterly that the Wildhammer had refused his entreaties for aid against the Legion. The Eclipsion company openly patrolled that area, as a reminder of who precisely controlled the valley.)

In truth, Kael believed the sin'dorei would soon outgrow the confines of Shadowmoon Valley; it would not suit them for much longer, though this was something Kael dreaded to contemplate, as it surely meant awkward conversations with Illidan. This was why the Sanctum was so crucial to their plans. They simply had to learn what they could of this world if they were to find a new home, a place to rebuild their fallen kingdom, and a stronghold from which to fight Kil'jaeden and the Legion more effectively.

Thus the Sanctum was Rommath's purview, as Grand Magister of Quel'Thalas, though he counted the Magister Voren'thal Starweaver his trusted second and majordomo at the Sanctum during his sojourns back to Quel'Thalas. Voren'thal had once been Rommath's mentor, when he and Kael were boys, and Kael himself had studied the art of astromancy at Voren'thal's feet, during long summers upon the Isle, at the Terrace. He bore fond memories of him as a youth, being a man of gentle demeanor, powerful gifts of foresight and pure arcane ability, with endless patience for the battery of questions Kael always posed to him, though his kindness belied his rigorous approach to instruction. Voren'thal expected much of his pupils, and Kael and Rommath both rose to the occasion. Kael had chosen another of Voren'thal's apprentices, Capernian Darkshadow, to join him in his small court at Dalaran along with Rommath, and she was an occasional lover. Such was the bond they shared.  

Voren'thal was a man greatly respected by his peers, certainly following the Third War. It was said that Voren'thal alone, of the senior generation of magisters, remained behind to safeguard the ancient treasures and storehouse of knowledge at the Terrace, when the Scourge marched upon the Isle to claim the Sunwell. And he was as humble and self-effacing as he was powerful, refusing to take up the mantle of Grand Magister, stating that his vision would lead him elsewhere.

It was also said that Voren'thal was the secret paramour of the Grand Magistrix Aelyndra, and that her son Rommath was the most precious treasure she implored him to safeguard at the Terrace, before she went to her fate in defense of the Sunwell...though this in particular was said by far fewer.

Voren'thal had written Kael that morning, politely requesting that he make his rounds there a bit earlier than usual, and this was why Kael stood watching dragonhawks traversing the blackened skies of the valley, rather than perusing maps within the Chamber of Command. Newly energized from his feeding, he lifted and swept his arms in a wide and graceful circle, whispering words of power, and with an inrush of shimmering air, he vanished from the temple courtyard.

Within a flash of golden light, within the span of a heartbeat, he reappeared in the foyer of the Sanctum. As per usual, the spiraling tower was fair bustling with activity, with blood elven arcanists embarked on any number of projects. They scarce noticed Kael's sudden presence within their laboratory; some few sank to their knees in reverence, others bowed and then quickly returned to their work when Kael acknowledged them politely, with a regal incline of his head.

It was Voren'thal who greeted Kael with a deep and elegant courtier's bow when his prince appeared. He was tall and slight, even for a mage, and his platinum hair was finely streaked with silver. Like so many of the magisters, he too had an epithet, earned when he was invested in the Magisterium; "the Seer", they deemed him, for his gift of sight, seeking truth and visions among the stars. The years had treated him kindly, as they always treated their people, and his olive skin was not so sallow as Kael remembered. But there was still that all too familiar melancholy hovering about him. Like so many others, Voren'thal had lost much with the destruction of Quel'Thalas (particularly if there were truth to those old rumors). But he bore the pain of his loss with an august grace, one quintessentially sin'dorei in its beauty, and stood tall in spite of it. Kael was put to mind of his father when he saw him; he swallowed a sudden pang of grief, clinging to his own sense of dignity as always as a shield.

"Greetings, your Highness," Voren'thal said warmly, a genuine smile upon his face.

Kael returned his smile with a gracious one of his own, and extended to him a chaste kiss of greeting. "And to you, magister. I must confess that I received your note with a great deal of concern. I hope the day finds you well?"

"It does, and I apologize for putting you ill at ease, my prince," Voren'thal replied. "I merely wished to inform you that the Grand Magister has returned from Quel'Thalas, as per your instructions to notify you of such a development."

Kael could not help himself, and felt his smile spreading upon his own lips, positively beaming. "It's no trouble, Voren'thal. I thank you. Where is Rommath?"

The astromancer bowed a second time, and politely beckoned for Kael to follow him. "This way, your Highness. He is taking morning tea, I believe."

They walked together up and through the breadth of the facility, and Kael was treated to an impromptu tour of sorts, looking in upon his mages. There, surrounded by a bevy of exotic flora collected from across Outland--and typically oblivious to their passing--was Freywinn Sunseeker, the botanist, whose apprentices maintained Illidan's lush private garden within the temple. Further up the stairs, the magister Pathaleon held court with a pair of apprentices upon the second terrace, male and female, studying a number of scarlet crystal fragments upon a table with a great deal of intent. Kael recognized the male apprentice as his frequent companion, though he could not recall the fellow's name.

Pathaleon, Kael knew well. A gifted magister and engineer, whose keen and analytical mind proved of great value in the back streets of ruined Dalaran, during their desperate flight to this world. It was Pathaleon, working in tandem with Telonicus, who devised engines of biting frost and burning flame from mere bits of scrap, to help Kael and Vashj hold the line against Garithos' vengeful soldiers, and secured their people's escape through the portal. Many reckoned Pathaleon a hero for such an act, and none so much as Pathaleon himself. It was goodwill well-earned, and Kael would be the last to begrudge him that, but he savored it altogether too much for Kael's taste. Rommath spoke of it often in his missives.

"The Calculator," Voren'thal noted quietly. "Heir to House Dawnsinger, who held a seat on the Convocation."

The name was familiar to Kael, indeed, as the Dawnsinger were an ancient bloodline and much respected in the Court of the Sun. "I remember. Rommath has mentioned him," Kael said, as he watched Pathaleon, gesturing grandiosely while his apprentices hung on his every word. Beautiful and brilliant though he was, Kael found the man's demeanor rather pompous, and thought him perhaps too much convinced of his own self-importance, in the manner so many of the scions of the ancient houses. Kael had not forgotten his untoward remarks about the draenei, either, which stood as clearly in his memory as much as Pathaleon's one-time heroism.

"He is an arcanist and engineer of great skill, my prince," Voren'thal remarked, almost as though he were reading his thoughts. "And his skill is matched only by his ambition."

"What's he working on?" Kael asked curiously, glancing upon the crimson fragments.

"He seeks no less than a cure for our addiction," Voren'thal replied.

Kael snorted. "Despite Lord Illidan's assurances that no such cure exists? His efforts would be spent better elsewhere."

Pathaleon looked up from his lecture, and met Kael's gaze from across the open air chamber.  There was a hunger in his softly glowing emerald eyes, Kael noted, that was somewhat unnerving; it became more evident as the mage swept around the table and strode toward him and Voren'thal. He swept a bow and sunk to his knees before Kael.

"Please permit me to extend a most gracious welcome to you, Prince Kael'thas. The Sanctum is made brighter for your sun-touched presence, and we hope you find it pleasing," he said. There was a hint of pleading to his tone that grated on Kael. His hair fell in a cascade of soft, coppery gold silk, framing his olive skin as he bowed his head. Kael had to admit he was rather beautiful, though it took some restraint to keep from rolling his eyes at such cloying flattery--even when spoken from lips that formed a luscious pout around each honeyed word.

"The pursuit of knowledge is a noble one, and more crucial to the survival of our people now than it has ever been. It does please me," Kael answered, his brusqueness belied by his eloquence.

Pouting lips curved into a slight smile--a smug and self-satisfied smile--and Kael found himself sorely missing Rommath's company, then. There was a subtle difference between obeisance born of genuine devotion, and that born of naked ambition. Rommath was motivated by the former, always, and circumspect. Kael had been too long in the world of politics to mistake Pathaleon's fawning for anything but the latter, and it was far from subtle. It chafed at him, even as he took great pains to hide his distaste behind the gracious demeanor of a benevolent prince.

It appeared Voren'thal felt much the same way about the one he called the Calculator; when he spoke once more, his tone was polite, but terse. "The Prince has an engagement, lad."

"Yes, of course. My apologies, Voren'thal," Pathaleon said smoothly, his expression shifting like a chameleon's colors as he gleaned the mood. (Calculator indeed, Kael thought, if not terribly subtle.) He rose to his feet, and with a sense of grace so absent-minded that it was almost careless, raised his slender hand to his chest in salute and bowed once more to Kael. "May the light of the sun shine upon House Sunstrider," he said to his prince.

Kael gave him a curt but cordial nod of dismissal, and swept past him at Voren'thal's side, continuing on through the wide chambers and spiraling stairs.

"His epithet was well earned," Voren'thal remarked dryly. Kael laughed softly.

"I can see that. Is he always so…?"

"Always. But forgive him his pride, your Highness, if he bears too much of it," Voren'thal said somewhat apologetically. "He is not so different from Rommath, or any of us, when all is said and done. It is pride that sustains the Magisterium, as it always has. Even so far from home, we take our duties seriously."

Kael rather vehemently disagreed with the arcanist's observation that Pathaleon was anything like Rommath; he himself saw no great similarity, but for their generous mouths. He thought better of pressing the issue when he glanced sidelong upon his old tutor and saw the faint lines etched about his eyes and mouth, and noted silver streaks in his hair that had grown deeper and more numerous since last Kael saw him. If Pathaleon tested Kael in so brief an encounter, surely he tested Voren'thal, being in close proximity with him day in and day out there in the Sanctum...but before all else there was pride and duty. Pride and duty were things Kael understood well, things to cling to when all else seemed lost. Perhaps it was something quintessentially Thalassian, this pride, even when it was in the service of petty ambition. 

Such pride had undone them all once, in the person of a traitor: one of the Magisterium's own, who gave accursed Arthas the secret to all their carefully laid defenses, and cost them everything.

Everything but this pride.

But there was pride, too, in the faces of refugees, the night Kael named them sin'dorei that the world would never forget, and they sang the names of the sacred and beloved dead. There was pride in bright crimson blood splattered upon the stark white drifts in the frozen north, pride in the graceful sweep of blades and stinging arrows and incantations of fire. There was pride in the eyes of those who served with pleasure in the Den of Mortal Delights, with none of the shame such a calling would have once had among quel'dorei; there was pride in those who took what was given freely in hedonistic affection. Why would there not be pride among those who sought to plumb the mysteries of a shattered world, so that their people might prosper there? Kael possessed it too, as a mage, as a scion of House Sunstrider. Perhaps he was being unfair.

"The Magisterium endures," Voren'thal said softly, quiet and knowing. "Though it appears a shadow of its former glory, we are not broken, and we endure. I have faith in Rommath--and in you, my young prince. There is great promise in this world. I have seen it, along with the danger. Is peril not the mistress of promise? But I have faith in you."

His tone took Kael's memory drifting back to those summer nights of stargazing with Rommath, listening to soft-spoken prophecy, and the nostalgia warmed him. Voren'thal...always patient and self-assured, always trusting in his visions. Kael wondered what else he saw, in the strange and alien skies above Outland. How much triumph, and how much peril?

"What else do you see, magister?" Kael asked.

Voren'thal smiled enigmatically. "A bright sun piercing the shadows of the depths of the earth and sea, bringing warmth to the cold and light to the darkness. I've seen that since the day you were born, your Highness," he replied.

"Thank you," Kael said, and meant it. The sea meant something to him, after the grotto, and he found subtle reassurance in such words.

The Seer bowed deeply, gesturing to the final terrace where Rommath sat at a round table with a porcelain cup and a furrowed brow, sifting through bits of parchment. His old friend glanced up, and his expression immediately relaxed; the lines between his feathery brows melted, and his smile was like the Thalassian sunrise. It made Kael weak in the knees. His smile always did.

"My prince," Rommath said a bit breathlessly. He rose to his feet as Voren'thal politely slipped away.

"Rom, please," Kael said, as he strode to him and took his hand. "I only wish to be Kael, today."

Rommath nodded, and offered him a chair beside his own. As Kael swept into it, he watched Rommath retrieve the teapot and a second delicately painted porcelain cup, and smiled at the elegance of the gesture, the care he took in so simple a thing as pouring tea. It was no formal service in the traditional manner, but still, he took pride in it. The warm scent of mageroyal filled his senses, and he felt the tension in his shoulders ease. Kael gratefully accepted his cup, and sipped it casually, breathing in its steam and taking solace in it, and the familiar presence of Rommath sitting beside him, looking out into the valley. Somehow it seemed less grim and strange, beside him.

"It's vast, isn't it?" Rommath mused a bit absently. "How do we hold something so vast?"

Kael chuckled. "By our fingertips, in places. But we do hold it. We gained the steam pools near the Hand, before you left. The naga were deadly and efficient, as usual."

"I wish I'd been there to fight," Rommath said.

The memory of the massive construct returned--what Telonicus deemed a 'fel reaver'--and Kael could almost hear that hellish klaxon clawing at his ears again. He shuddered, and drank his tea. "You shouldn't," he said sardonically.

Rommath scrunched his nose in a rather affronted expression, then raised his cup to his lips. "Speaking of the naga, have you spoken with Lady Vashj as yet? I don't mean to pry, love, but you can't allow this to fester between you."

Kael sighed deeply, taking a long and soothing drink from his cup, letting the sensation of sweet, earthy warmth trickle down his throat in comfort. He supposed he should have seen it coming, that it would have been too much to hope for that Rommath would have forgotten their last conversation. But he didn't, and now he found himself fumbling again, searching for words he half-dared not find. It wounded him to think of her, to remember the weight of her body in his arms and the sweet taste of her lips and the depths of a yearning that frightened her...and the invitation she had yet to accept.

"I did," Kael replied, and it seemed hopelessly inadequate to describe that night in the grotto.

"And?"  Rommath's eyebrows raised, questioningly.

Another sip of tea, before he spoke again, to find his center of calm. "Illidan is not the only man she loves," Kael said quietly.

Rommath's expression was an enigma, his stare penetrating as he silently drank his own tea. "Of course," he said. "And what was your answer?"

"She's been the oathbound concubine of a queen she likens unto a god, for ten thousand years, and would be forsworn if she sought anything-- _anyone_ else," Kael said, as he propped his elbow on the armrest, and lightly massaged his throbbing temple with his free hand. "It doesn't matter."

He felt a gentle hand upon his shoulder then. "It matters to me," Rommath said.

Kael sighed, shutting his eyes. "I value her friendship and always have. She is wise, powerful, and mysterious. I can't deny her beauty has its own allure, as different as she is to us in form. Perhaps I have grown enamored with her over these long months, I can't know. But I kissed her that night, and I ache to do it again, to do things I'm not even certain are possible. And she avoids me, because she loves me."

"Can I really fault her?" Rommath asked, shutting his eyes with a knowing, cheeky grin. "You're easy to love, Kael. Easy, and maddening."

The silence was awkward, and it wounded him, and so pride and duty returned, Kael's twin refuges. There were more pressing concerns than this endless personal melodrama, and it was past time he remembered that. "How fares Quel'Thalas?" he asked.

"I thought you only wished to be Kael today," Rommath said, in a gently teasing manner which coaxed the curve of a smile from Kael's lips once again.

"What I wish and what is required are two different things," Kael replied with lowered eyes upon his cup, and his smile turned to self-deprecation. "How fares Quel'Thalas?" he asked again, more insistently.

Rommath leaned back in his chair. "Better, with the burning crystals. The lethargy is all but gone, and not a moment too soon. The seasons are turning, love. There's a hint of frost in the air, and for once it's not unnatural. For the first time, I fear Quel'Thalas will know winter before long."

"She already has," Kael said a bit darkly, recalling mournfully the ill wind that blew on the Isle, bearing with it the unholy chill of the grave.

"I know, and I'm not certain which manner of winter is worse. Still, can you imagine Eversong blanketed in white like the Tirisfal Glades? It defies the very imagination." Rommath shook his head, sighing to himself. "At any rate, at least we're not lacking in preparation for such a momentous occasion. Since the crystals arrived, the recovery has begun in earnest, now that more people are mobile and have the energy to work. There've been no further incursions by undead into the camps, and the Isle is well and truly rid of them. Sun's Reach is rebuilt and the armory's forge is burning hot again. The Farstriders' numbers have swelled with volunteers, and Halduron Brightwing drills them daily in the plaza. Even the shipwright is back at work, repairing the fleet. Several vessels were raised from the sea, and ferry supplies to and from Sunstrider Isle." Rommath grinned proudly. "The sin'dorei are back in business, my prince."

"Good. Very good," Kael said. "What about the City?"

Rommath pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Halduron's been sending scouts deeper into the ruins, tracking the undead's movements and gathering intelligence. Kel'Thuzad's cultists are entrenched but it's not so large a force as we feared, strangely enough--truly, it appears our conjecture was correct, and the Sunwell was the true prize they sought. Only a token garrison was left behind, it would seem. The bulk of the remaining Scourge forces are like as not further south, perhaps holding the pass and the old Lordaeron border," Rommath replied.  

"The Plaguelands," Kael said grimly. It had been Grand Marshal Garithos' moniker for the ruined human kingdom--an apt one for a land riddled with pestilence to the very soil, where even the trees rotted from ague. Kael had seen a number of Scourge bases himself in that region, and fought the undead pouring out from them. It would stand to reason that the Plaguelands was where the heart of the Scourge's strength lay.

Rommath nodded his agreement; he had heard the name too, serving under the foul human's command, and fought its undead fiercely at Kael's side. "Theron's planning for an assault on the City itself in a few weeks time, and he just might be able to pull it off.  The man was born a general, I swear it, he's a genius tactician. No wonder Sylvanas spoke so highly of him," he said.

Kael smiled approvingly, at the thought. In truth, he'd not been acquainted with either ranger before the War, with his duties in Dalaran, and only met them in earnest at Magister's Terrace upon his return after the invasion. Lor'themar Theron had been Sylvanas Windrunner's trusted second, a spellbreaker and well-respected Ranger-Lord by all accounts, who was held in high esteem by his peers. He seemed exhausted when Kael met him, as all the survivors did, but he possessed a dogged and quiet determination that impressed Kael. The refugees loved him well, and he'd acquitted himself well in the aftermath, according to everyone he'd spoken with. No one had a single ill word, for Lor'themar Theron and his command.

"What _do_ you think of Lor'themar Theron?" Kael asked, the cogs in his mind turning and turning, as he thought on the Ranger-Lord.

"Oh, he's rather easy on the eyes. But you know I've always adored a warrior's physique, especially when laced by wicked scars," Rommath drawled, primly sipping the rest of his cup. "His _arms,_ Kael. Such glorious arms. But then you'd know about strong and muscled arms, wouldn't you? Your dear Lord Stormrage certainly would."

Kael laughed heartily. "You're incorrigible, Rom."

"I try, and I am honest. But as I said, he's a gifted tactician, and a brilliant warrior. I fought alongside him when the orcs invaded all those years ago, I remember how skilled he was. Strong, and fast--faster than any spellbreaker I've ever seen--and smart. He's not a man who only does his thinking with his blade." Rommath paused then, and Kael watched as his expression crumbled, and his eyes grew haunted. "If Theron had been at the Sunwell, we might be having a different conversation now."

"Love…"

Rommath sighed, and poured himself another cup of tea, taking a long drink. "I know. Such thoughts are pointless. I know. We cannot change the past or its outcome. Theron himself told me as much, when I was in the grip of despair. Still, I think he might have saved them. He makes it easy to believe such things, the way he fights. He's been quite valuable to us all, in that practical way of officers, quietly going about his work and keeping the peace. But...he is a soldier above all else, and no politician. His shrewdness ends, away from the battlefield, and he is soft in ways ill-fitting for the council chamber--he was slow to trust the fel power I brought with me, and only accepted it reluctantly. If you ask what I think of him, I say that he's done well by the sin'dorei. You are our heart, and he is our callused hands, our shield. If he is naive in the ways of intrigue, he can be persuaded by one who is not."

Kael nodded, and set his empty cup on the table, pursing his lips in brooding thought as he considered Rommath's words. The ad-hoc chain of command he'd set in place when he departed with Rommath to search out the Alliance had served ably indeed, if Rommath spoke truthfully, and Kael had no reason to doubt him. But with the Isle reclaimed in earnest, his people would no longer huddle in refugee camps, looking to steel and bow to order their daily lives--certainly not once a true push was made into the city to reclaim it. Even in a temporary home, ad-hoc leadership would not suffice to guide Silvermoon's huddled masses to recovery and inspire strength enough to reunite the sin'dorei here in Outland. Kael had to ensure a continuity of command, one to fix his people's sorrowing eyes on the future--on the promise of this broken world, and not the ruins around them.

Decisions would need to be made, and soon. Painful ones. Kael gazed upon his oldest and dearest friend, and felt the familiar tug of duty on his heart, though for once it was no comfort to him. Quel'Thalas needed her Grand Magister more than Kael did, and he knew it was true. The truth of it did not make it any less bitter, though.

"We need to discuss a regency," Kael said quietly. "What say you?"

Rommath blinked at him. "You wish for me to be your Regent?"

"There is no one I trust so much as you," Kael began by way of response, "and you understand that the destiny of our people lies here, in this world, with Lord Illidan's protection. Not in a crumbling ruin seated in a wasteland surrounded by enemies on all sides."

"One might make that argument about Outland," Rommath remarked.

"But not you," Kael said. "You know Quel'Thalas will only truly be reborn in this world, not upon Azeroth. Our promised land is here, love. I only need to find it. Oh, I concede that we have powerful enemies here--but we have powerful allies too, something we sorely lack in the old world. And you understand this, Rom. You know our future lies here, and that I can realize it with Illidan and Vashj." 

At this, Kael reached inside one of the inner pockets of his mantle, and removed a small, crystalline vial; he held it in the palm of his outstretched hand before Rommath, glowing softly with untold arcane power.

Rommath stared at it in wide-eyed wonder. Kael did not have to tell him what it was, not this loyal and brilliant son of the storied Magisterium who spent his childhood absorbing the esoteric histories and traditions of their people at his parents' feet. Kael did not have to explain what that vial was to Rommath, the descendent of Sarath'Var Nightsong--Sarath'Var, who watched his beloved pour its like into a small lake on a lonely, uncharted island in the frozen north sea eons ago, and birthed a civilization from it.

Kael did not have to tell him what it meant for their people to possess even a drop of Eternity.

It was a long while before Rommath spoke, and his demeanor was no longer casual and familiar, rather a bit more severe and formal. "Would you hear my counsel, my prince?" he asked.

Kael stared at him intently, returning the vial to his pocket as he did, his eyes never leaving him. "And what is your counsel, Rommath?"

"As your advisor, and Grand Magister? Let Theron remain caretaker of Quel'Thalas for now. He's done an able job of it thus far, and I can steer him through the labyrinth of politics well enough. The people need a firm hand to guide them here safely, and a reminder of what awaits them beyond ruins and sorrow. Both are needed in equal measure, and I can provide that just as effectively in Theron's shadow. Perhaps more effectively, I daresay. As your advisor, I say let me be your voice in his ear, and nothing more."

"And as somewhat else?" Kael's expression turned solemn.

Rommath sighed deeply, burying his face in his hands in frustration. "Let Lor'themar Theron rule a crumbling, haunted ruin in your name. And let me stay here, before I lose you to the strong arms of a demon and the siren song of a serpent, if I haven't already," he said bitterly. "But what I wish and what is required are two different things."

Kael winced at his own words being returned on him like poison barbs, and the envy behind them. Rommath always had that way about him, though, with words. "You haven't lost me, love. You will not lose me," he said firmly.

When Rommath lifted his face from his hands, Kael saw the anguish writ in his expression, in the clenched set of his jaw and the shadows beneath emerald eyes hard as agates and standing with tears. "Haven't I? Don't patronize me, Kael. I don't want your pity, my lord prince, certainly not when you mean to exile me!" he cried. He shoved his chair back from the table and leapt to his feet, pacing to a shelf across the terrace, and leaned against it with his back turned.

Kael was reminded of that Thalassian pride, in the shape of a prickly boy from his youth. Proud, and disdainful of anything resembling a meaningless platitude where his affection was concerned. Rommath's passions burned ardent and true, and he would accept no less in return from the man he loved. That was the truth that lay beyond the façade of the shrewd and wily courtier. The guileful magister had a guileless heart in love, and Kael held it in all its fragile innocence within the palm of his hand.

That was where Rommath differed from Pathaleon.

"I do not pity you, Rommath Sunreaver. I love you, and I have been a fool," Kael said quietly.

He refused to stand on ceremony, boldly crossing the distance between them, and wrapped his arms about him in a tight embrace. He felt Rommath's arms slip around his waist, and his pulse quickened; he parted pouting lips with his tongue in a languid, hungry kiss, tasting earthy mageroyal when their tongues met and caressed one another, darting between their teeth. Rommath clung to him, the soft folds of Kael's robes clenched in his fists.

"Light above, I missed you," Rommath whispered, breathless and yearning, with his nose pressed against Kael's neck. The warmth of his breath against Kael's skin sent tingles of pleasure up his spine. "I missed this."

"Me too, Rom," Kael replied softly, stroking Rommath's silky hair.

"I thought you wouldn't. Not anymore," Rommath said. His voice quivered.

A lump formed in Kael's throat, and he swallowed it down hard, along with the guilt that gave rise to it. He'd neglected Rommath; he realized it then, as his oldest companion clung to him in the shadows of an eldritch sky, as though he were afraid Kael might slip through his hands forever if he deigned to let go. He never feared like this before, either; Kael realized that as well, in that moment they held each other, and Rommath trembled in his grasp like he never had before. Always, they'd had their duties in the past: Kael to the Kirin Tor, Rommath to the Magisterium. Always, they did as they willed, loved and sought pleasure as they willed, and found it more often than not. If ever there was the occasional misunderstanding or pang of jealousy, it always passed. Theirs was a bond no dalliance or lover could come between, and they understood one another, always. There was no reason to fear otherwise. Neither had ever given the other reason to fear that things would ever change, or _could_ ever change between them. Such was the depth of affection they shared, since boyhood.

This time was different. Illidan was different, and they both knew it. He was no casual dalliance to Kael. This wasn't Dalaran.

And there was Vashj. No matter how things stood between her and Kael, no matter the uncertainty, there was Vashj, holding the mysteries of the deep in her golden eyes beside eons of longing and suppressed passion.

"I love you," Kael said again, and his tone was exceedingly gentle when he did. "Illidan will never change that, no matter how much I love him. And I do love him, dearly. Neither will Vashj change it, if she would have me. You've held a piece of my heart since we were children, Rom, since before I even knew the meaning of love. I'm sorry for not showing it enough."

"I don't want to leave you," Rommath murmured against his neck. "I'm sorry. I know that I must. I know the wisdom in it, I spoke it to you myself. I know it's the best course, and a needful one. But I don't want to. Damn this fear."

"I don't want you to go," Kael said, meaning it dearly, closing his eyes against the rising tide of desire within him when Rommath's lips brushed against his skin. "It's as much exile for me as for you, I swear it. No one could ever replace you, not even Illidan and Vashj."

"I thought he had," Rommath sighed, and Kael held him tighter. "I thought you no longer desired me, the day you pushed me away."

Kael felt guilty again, but not for any slight he may have committed in squandering Rommath's affection. It was the laughter that he suppressed that made him twinge with guilt, at the notion that he could ever stop desiring Rommath, when he sought his features out in every sin'dorei face, and his blood raced lower with every word he spoke with warm breath on his sensitive neck.

He had truly fouled things, if Rommath could ever believe that Kael's hunger for him would ever cease.

Kael slipped his slender fingers through Rommath's hair, black silk growing taut in his tightening grip, and he felt him whimper softly against him, his golden-toned skin flushing crimson to the roots of his hair and the tips of his pointed ears. "As if I could ever stop wanting you," Kael purred with a low growl in his ear. "It's taking everything in me not to bend you over that table right here and now, in a sanctum full of arcanists."

"Such scandalous words, my prince," Rommath replied with hitched breath, and a coy smile just this side of lurid. It was an expression that drove Kael to distraction, the way his angular eyes narrowed and openly took their measure of Kael's body, the way his sensuous lips curved, full and pouting. It was a look that stoked the fires in him, inspired wicked thoughts of those lips upon him, suckling for all they were worth. That look, and those thoughts, and the ache they stirred in his breeches--all together they threatened to drive Kael to a bit of recklessness.

"Shall I?" Kael breathed into his ear, as his other hand drifted down the front of Rommath's silk robes, and the heat between them grew more stifling than the heavy, infernal air of the Valley. His lover was rock hard beneath his touch, straining under the laces of his breeches. Maddeningly tentative strokes followed, turning to soft teasing kneads, and Rommath was utterly yielding beneath his hands.

Rommath whimpered; a plaintive sound that Kael found amusing and arousing in equal parts, for the sheer frustration it held. "Not here," he murmured, clamping his eyes shut as if to cool his own blood. "We can't. Discretion..."

"…is paramount. Very well." Kael removed his hand, and withdrew gracefully from him, loosing his hair from his grasp, with a deep kiss of parting.

Rommath smiled a bit wistfully at him, when they pulled away from one another, and his monolidded eyes were still heavy, dark with desire behind the bright emerald glow. "You haven't been this impulsive since we were boys in Dalaran," he said in mild amusement, smoothing out the wrinkled folds of his robes.

"Perhaps Illidan's rubbed off on me," Kael replied with a sardonic grin.

"That's one way of putting it, I suppose," Rommath said dryly. He quirked an eyebrow then. "Perhaps I should thank him for his influence."

If his old friend meant to stay Kael's lustful imagination, and appeal to his sense of propriety, such talk did absolutely nothing of the sort. Still, Kael remained composed, only smiling slyly at him by way of reply, before turning his attention to more practical matters. "Will you be joining us in council this afternoon? The others should hear your report from Quel'Thalas, and we'll need to discuss the regency."

"I've a council of my own with Voren'thal to attend at the moment, I'm afraid. But send word, and I shall," Rommath answered dutifully. He bowed deeply, a perfect courtier's bow with fluid grace; it made Kael's heart ache. "Your will is my command, my prince."

"Be well, Rommath," Kael said, still smiling.

With a gentle incline of his head, Kael swept his arms once more in a circular gesture, chanting the familiar words of power as the flows of energy within him gathered, renewed by scintillating fel vitality. It built to a crescendo, and then he vanished into the ether, to return once more to the temple, and his duty, with pride and no small amount of longing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to take a moment to apologize profusely for neglecting this fic for so long. I'm really sorry for everyone who was left hanging. And I want to sincerely thank everyone who's supported this fic despite the fact that it looked damn near abandoned. I promise it hasn't been, and I swear updates will be coming swifter now that it's sunk its claws back into me again.


	10. A Gathering Storm

It was a smaller gathering which met in the temple's Chamber of Command that afternoon, as the dark shadows of the valley deepened even further to twilight. Smaller, and entirely sin'dorei to the last attendee. Though Kael was as loyal as ever to Illidan's cause, this was not a standard Illidari war council meeting to discuss the progress of their efforts against the Burning Legion. It was Thalassian business Kael was about this day--business that did not require anyone's presence but those he trusted most implicitly, and a select few trusted in turn by these closest aides.

Kael paused at the entrance to the chamber and coolly took his measure of those who were present as they rose in respect and accordance with royal protocols. True to his word, Rommath had answered his prince's summons and dutifully attended the session accompanied by a small, elite number of the highest ranking arcanists from the Sanctum, including Voren'thal. Pathaleon, rather curiously, was among those numbered. Kael trusted in Rommath's judgment enough not to question it and had too much decorum to reveal his dubiousness at the unctuous courtier's presence. He saw the reasoning there, regardless of his personal distaste for Pathaleon; the man was still rightfully reckoned a hero, as well as Telonicus' best engineer, and it would have been impolitic to exclude him. 

In all, there were a dozen and a half sin'dorei present. Some, like the erstwhile Commander Ruusk of Eclipsion Company, were no stranger to Illidari war councils, and quite familiar to Kael from the ill-fated trenches of Northrend. Others, he had to reach back into his long and considerable memory of times gone by at the Court of the Sun to recall.

Capernian Darkshadow was not one of those, not with her quick tactical brilliance and powerful magical talent--shown in the battle for the cistern when she stunned the vulnerable fel reaver--still fresh in Kael's mind. Tall and slender, with typically elegant carriage, she was the first to greet her prince with a low curtsey, her midnight black hair swept up high atop her head. Kael was circumspect in his acknowledgement of her greeting, keenly aware of the presence of others, and merely smiled at her politely. It was not simply her skill in battle that made her memorable, however. When their eyes met, it was a different story from the circumspect politeness shown outwardly; an old and fond story, writ in tumbled silk sheets and blissful sighs in the heady days of their youth in Dalaran.

Kael did always have a weakness for dark hair, and not strictly on men.

"Prince Kael'thas," Capernian said smoothly, holding her curtsey with a courtier's grace.

"Magistrix Darkshadow," Kael replied. He beckoned her to rise, but said nothing more, only smiled at her. He turned to take his seat at the head of the table, letting his gaze fall over the chamber. "Please be seated, my lords and ladies. We have a great deal to discuss, and I would hear your reports first," he said.

Said reports were not terribly noteworthy, for the most part. Shadowmoon Valley had in truth been relatively quiet since the battle for what had come to be called Coilskar Cistern a fortnight past, according to Kael's councilors. Illidan's dogged jailor, Maiev Shadowsong, had been herself safely ensconced within Telonicus' prison, warded by devious enchantments and Akama's Ashtongue elite alike. Excavations were underway at the draenei Ruins of Ba'ari--there were archaeologists among the sin'dorei, Kael had learned, trained by the long defunct Royal Reliquary--but these had unearthed nothing of import but the odd trinket. It appeared that Magtheridon's forces, or perhaps Gul'dan's before them, had thoroughly looted the place when first they claimed the valley.  Of the orcs that remained, Commander Ruusk remained steadfastly confident in their allegiances.

"The Dragonmaw orcs are loyal to Lord Illidan, your Highness, in keeping with Bladefist's promises. There remains little in the way of threats to contend with in the eastern valley. Legion Hold continues its silence, as does that cursed dwarf lord, Wildhammer. Every emissary I've sent to his stronghold has been immediately turned away, my prince," Ruusk concluded. "The only answer aside that we've yet received has come in gryphon riders sighted more than once in the skies above Eclipsion Point, seeking intelligence. Our archers discouraged that little operation with extreme prejudice. If the dwarves seek to learn of our strength, your Highness, let them join with us and add to it. If not…well, they shall learn of it another way." He spread his calloused hands wide with a shrug.

Capernian snorted rather contemptuously, at that. "Typical Alliance," she spat. "They have the memories of mayflies, the lot of them. Who protected Kurdran's precious Aerie when the Horde marched in force upon the Hinterlands? Thalassian Farstriders gave their lives for it, for all of the Wildhammers, in the Second War...and yet he deigns to ignore us, then spy upon us? Who is he to so treat with us?"

The doe-eyed woman seated beside Capernian laid a slender, dark hand upon her shoulder. She, too, was someone quite familiar to Kael, from the old days in Dalaran: Solarian Brightstar. 

"Peace, Capernian. It was the Dragonmaw who tried setting Aerie Peak to the torch, and now Wildhammer sees us in league with them. I can understand his suspicion, even if his refusal to parley is frustrating. We all know how stubborn dwarves are, and how slow they are to accept changing realities," Solarian said. 

Kael smiled fondly when she spoke. Solarian had always been gentler than her lover, ever since he'd met them.

There was a low murmur of agreement with her sentiment, around the table. Capernian nodded, with a little sigh of acquiescence. She reached up to squeeze Solarian's gentle hand. "I suppose you're right. My apologies for interrupting you, Commander," she said, then, to Ruusk.

Ruusk smiled at her a bit wryly. "I take no offense, my lady Magistrix. I don't suppose anyone would who remembers Garithos, and the Violet Hold."

That earned him more than a few darkly sardonic chuckles, from Kael most of all. "Is there anything else to report, Ruusk?" he asked.

"Yes, your Highness. Strangely enough, it's regarding those titanic colossi we've seen sporadically in the mountain passes, who dwell in the remote regions of the valley. Dragonhawk riders located a settlement of sorts not far from our base. I sent emissaries to parley with them, and they appear far more amenable than the dwarves," Ruusk said.

"It would seem the dwarves are quite literally more stubborn than stone. Remarkable," Capernian snickered.

“So it would seem,” Ruusk replied. “The stone in question is formidable, however." He addressed his prince once more when he continued. "Those colossi are aggressive and territorial, your Highness. They harried a full patrol of my best hawkstrider cavalry for nearly a week before retreating when we fell back to the base. But they've not attacked since we ceased our attempts to scout deeper through the pass by ground, and we chose to conduct our reconnaissance by air instead. Their aggression cools if they perceive no threat to their territory. If we could get them on our side, they'd make for powerful allies. Particularly if Wildhammer's silence turns somewhat else, and he seeks retaliation for his scouts."

"Do it. Better they should be an ally to us than an enemy," Kael said. He turned his attention then to Telonicus. "How fare your studies of our infamous trophy from the battle for the cistern?"

The emerald glow of the master engineer's eyes seemed that much brighter in his enthusiasm. "Quite interesting, your Highness! I've never seen anything quite like it--strangely enough, it bears some minor structural similarity to our own arcane guardians, but only in the most general sense. The core, the heart if you will, is far more complex and powerful by necessity, to power such a massive construct. And there's not merely fel energy within it, but something more. I only wish I had a mo'arg demon to interrogate on the subject. The craftsmanship has their stamp all over it," Telonicus said. 

"Perhaps that could be arranged," the fellow across from him offered, with a shrug. He wore Eclipsion colors: violet, gold, and midnight blue, and were that not enough to speak of his skill to Kael, surely his knightly deportment did. He sat tall and upright in his seat, nearly as thickly muscled as Ruusk, with a deep scar across his nose and cheek, and hair a rich chestnut brown pulled neatly back into a bun. Kael found that his scar only added to his beauty, a sort unusually rugged for a sin'dorei.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Thaladred," Telonicus said, with a light chuckle.

"What, you think I can't take a tinker demon?" Thaladred scoffed.

"'Take' is the operative word there, my bloodthirsty friend. Not 'take out'. I can't exactly interrogate a steaming pile of entrails, and you tend to get a little enthusiastic about your work," Telonicus quipped.

"Says the wonk who sits around giggling at his toolbox and talking to his toys all the live-long day. Sometimes I think your mother dallied with a gnome," Thaladred teased him, with an affectionate grin upon his scarred face. Kael laughed behind his hand, despite his best efforts at maintaining royal decorum in the presence of his subordinates.

"Better a gnome than half the Silver Hand--" Telonicus' sing-song drawl made Kael laugh even harder.

"Do try to behave, gentlemen," Capernian said archly. "Prince Kael'thas doesn't have all day to listen to you two bickering like a pair of country fishwives. And neither do I, for that matter. I've celestial transits to chart at the Sanctum."

Kael couldn't help but be amused by their banter, however. It put him to mind of Lor'themar and Halduron's goodnatured teasing back at the Magisters' Terrace, providing a much needed bit of levity. That had been the first time he'd truly laughed in what felt like an age to him, and it felt good. 

"It's alright, Capernian. But we do have some pressing matters to discuss," he said, once he composed himself. He rose to his feet, placing his arms behind his back, his shoulders broad and carriage regal, and let his gaze fall upon his beloved Grand Magister, seated as always at his right hand. "Rommath, please share your news of the recovery efforts on Azeroth."

Rommath bowed his head dutifully, then did so, informing the sin'dorei council as he did Kael that morning of what had transpired on the Isle of Quel'Danas in the past several weeks, and there was no small sense of palpable relief in the council chamber when he did. Despite the extent of the slaughter in Quel'Thalas, many of Kael's people had left behind sick and frail loved ones to fight at his side, first in their ultimately fruitless efforts under Garithos, and now here in Outland under Illidan. With so much in the way of loss, it was too easy for Kael to forget that not everyone had nothing to go back to on Azeroth, the way he did. Some had sacrificed what little remained, to follow him--and some lost even more, in the frozen north. Kael was humbled by their devotion, and by the solace they took in Rommath's words, which was a sober reminder of those sacrifices made in service to their people. He silently resolved once more to do honor by them as best he could.

"...And, as such, Lor'themar and Halduron are planning a major operation to push into Silvermoon City itself," Rommath concluded. "They believe we now have the strength to reclaim the city at least in part, and I agree with that assessment." He paused then, glancing up meaningfully at Kael, who remained standing gravely at the head of the table.

"Rommath will be accompanying them," Kael announced. "He will be returning to Quel'Thalas to assume a more direct role as Grand Magister. Grand Astromancer Voren'thal will remain here, and continue as Archmage of the Sanctum of the Stars."

The seer inclined his head in acknowledgment, his expression soft and humble. "As you will, my prince," Voren'thal said.

A familiar voice chimed in then, to Kael's mild chagrin. "May I speak frankly, your Highness?" Pathaleon asked.

"Of course, Pathaleon," Kael replied, suppressing the sigh that nearly followed.

The magister pursed his lips, his shrewd eyes narrowed in thought for a moment before he did speak again. "Please forgive me, for I mean no offense, but I confess to a certain amount of confusion regarding your intent, my liege. Have you not charged us with the study and exploration of this world so that we might rebuild Quel'Thalas here? Why reclaim Silvermoon when it shall only be abandoned in the future? Our resources are already stretched so thin, both here and on Azeroth," Pathaleon said.

It was a fair question, and in truth, Kael was mildly surprised that Pathaleon would be the one to pose it. Of a surety, he had the analytical mind of an engineer--his epithet was the Calculator, after all. But he didn't strike Kael as the sort of man to question his betters, not with his fawning manner. That he would do so was rather unexpected, and Kael found himself with a newfound admiration for him. Perhaps, in his haste, Kael had misjudged Pathaleon.

"I'm not offended in the slightest," Kael replied with a reassuring smile. "I'd hope it should be clear by now that I'm not the sort of leader who requires his advisors to be sycophants in slavish agreement with his every decision. I appreciate your candor." He turned then, walking to the enormous map of Outland hanging upon the wall, with his back turned to the table. "This, my friends, is indeed our future. This vast, broken world, and the promise it holds, is the key to our survival. But it will be some time before we've even scouted it in its entirety, much less found a place suitable for settlement. And in the meantime, our people on Azeroth--our friends, our loved ones--require a home. They require hope of a brighter future, and that is best found from within our beloved city, rather than scattered villages and refugee camps. It's _because_ our resources are stretched so thin that we must reclaim Silvermoon. Not simply because it would be a potent symbol of our rebirth as a people, but because it will serve as a beacon to gather our scattered people together, and a strong base from which to prepare them, so that they may be reunited with us here. First, we'll summon reinforcements for the forces lost in Northrend, but then…a nation will follow."

"Some of them may not wish to leave a restored Silvermoon, your Highness," Thaladred warned, his tone devoid then of its earlier, casual levity. "We're soldiers, the lot of us. We're accustomed to hardship and uncertainty. But for those who are not? Cleaving to the familiar comforts of home might be a sight easier to swallow than the prospect of settling an alien wilderness in another world...particularly after they've endured so many hardships already."

Rommath shook his head. "Were you there at the Terrace that night, for the memorial vigil? They shall come," he said firmly. "Silvermoon may be the shining crown jewel of Quel'Thalas, but Kael'thas is her heart. If their prince is here, the people shall come. I'd stake my life upon it."

"There is truth in what you say, but let us pray it does not come to that, Grand Magister," Pathaleon said. "We've already lost enough precious lives."

"Your words flatter me, Rommath, and I would join that prayer, Pathaleon," Kael said. "But in truth, the situation on Azeroth is merely temporary. Silvermoon will be but an intermediary haven. As I said, our home and our future, our promised land, lies here in Outland. Lord Illidan has not merely given us the gift of survival--he has given us what is necessary to thrive. Let Silvermoon be rebuilt so that our people may prosper in the meantime, but let them leave it a testament to what that world in its sorrow and evil has lost. Let it stand as a tomb as surely as the City of Lordaeron does, a mausoleum for the dead. We shall build an even grander Silvermoon here, one full of life and renewed vigor."

Pathaleon nodded his assent, seemingly satisfied by Kael's answer. "Thank you, Highness, for clarifying your intent. But where shall we build this new Silvermoon, my prince?"

"That, my dear magister, appears to be the thousand ducat question," Telonicus chuckled. "Shadowmoon Valley's awfully dark for a people fond of the sun, don't you think?"

Kael smiled at him. "That it is, Telonicus. But now that we've secured the majority of it and can spare the manpower, I want additional expeditionary forces to explore this world. We simply have too few in the field at present for such a vast expanse of terrain," he said.

"I'll confer with Lor'themar and Halduron, after our push into the City, and send as many able volunteers as we can spare," Rommath offered.

"As will I, your Highness," Ruusk added. "The Eclipsion stand ready to serve, as always."

"Thank you both, gentlemen. I wish to focus on three areas in particular." Kael reached up and gestured to each in turn, on the large map. "Terokkar Forest and Nagrand hold the most promise from the earliest reports, the latter in particular. By Akama's reckoning, Nagrand appears to have been the least affected by the arcane upheavals when Gul'dan and Ner'zhul's portals tore this world asunder. I want a full accounting and surveyance of both regions, and a forward operating base established in Terokkar. With Legion Hold dormant, I want to extend our supply lines. The Black Temple could use the lumber, if nothing else."

"At once, your Highness," Ruusk said. "And the third area?"

Kael stared at it on the map: what appeared to be a barren plain of rocky violet and a series of floating isles not unlike Shadowmoon Valley, in the far northernmost region of Outland. It stirred something deep within his memory, elusive yet promising. "Here. The Netherstorm," Kael answered, pressing his finger upon it on the wall map. "Lord Illidan once said that there is an abundance of arcane energy to be found there. My memory of them is admittedly vague, but I'm fairly certain the Kirin Tor's reports from the Second War mentioned that area."

"The Fields of Farahlon, your Highness," Solarian replied softly. "Archmage Vargoth led the Kirin Tor delegation that accompanied Khadgar's expeditionary forces here. He sent a missive to Dalaran which mentioned ley lines in the Fields of Farahlon. He meant to study them, and included a rough map of the region. It was where this...Netherstorm lies."

"Yes, and that was his final missive," Capernian said, sighing. Her lips curled into a frown, adding, "I know you had a great deal on your mind in those days, my prince."

Kael turned his back to the table once more and echoed her sigh. Truly, he'd had little to do with the Kirin Tor's contribution to the Alliance Expedition. Kael was fighting bitterly with his father Anasterian at the time, over the High King's threats to withdraw Quel'Thalas from the Alliance of Lordaeron entirely among bitter declarations that the quel'dorei's debt to Thoradin's line and the human sons of Strom was at last paid in full, and in too much blood and fire at the counting. It all seemed so momentous, that quarrel between he and his father then...so all-consuming, with the weighty balance of thrones and powers at stake, and Kael's own allegiances torn asunder and tested to the brink.

But Anasterian was no more, as Kael stood in a council chamber on another world. Anasterian was no more; neither was Quel'Thalas, nor Lordaeron. His father, the ancient, beloved king who stood for thousands of years as the most powerful war mage on life, fell in the defense of his people-- _their_  people--while Kael sat unawares in Dalaran swathed in Kirin Tor violet and gold, and steeped in Kirin Tor intrigue. While their homeland was besieged by the living dead and his father was dying in defense of the very heart and soul of his people, Kael was elsewhere, and their long quarrel rendered meaningless, when what seemed endless night came to a bloody and tragic end. Now, it simply seemed trivial in the cold light of grieving dawn, and he would have given anything to take it back.

He shook his head ever so slightly, almost as if he were physically trying to shake the all-too-familiar cloud of guilt and grief gathering in his mind and heart again, where his father was concerned. Instead, he willed himself to think of the lost Archmage Vargoth, and what might have befallen him in those broken fields. That land had shattered apart, but so had Shadowmoon Valley--and Wildhammer yet lived, holed up within his fortress. How could the mages of the Kirin Tor, with all their prodigious arcane ability and cunning, fail to do any less in a land supposedly rich in mana and threaded with powerful ley lines? Vargoth had always been a clever and resourceful man for as long as Kael had known him in Dalaran, and would have led his people ably through the upheaval. Kael believed it fervently. He faced his council of advisors once more with a grave expression.

"Vargoth may still be alive," Kael said quietly. "We need to find him, if for no other reason than to tell him what transpired in his long absence from Azeroth. Vargoth was a friend to Kel'Thuzad, once, before his betrayal. And the Kirin Tor is his life--they all knew it was likely a permanent exile through the Dark Portal, but he went gladly. The man is loyal, wise, and skilled. He may yet prove to be an ally."

"With all due respect, my lord prince, what has the Kirin Tor done to earn such graciousness from the sin'dorei?" Capernian asked, with clenched jaw. "You saw how they repaid your loyalty to them; you, who served them so nobly for so long. Where was your precious Kirin Tor when Garithos commandeered their prison and sentenced us all to death? Nowhere to be found, and their silence was near quite literally the death of us. I've had enough of supposed allies who turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to our peril. No--I say leave that old man where he rots, if he even lives, and let us continue to place our faith in those who have proven themselves worthy of it: Lady Vashj and her naga. They alone have been steadfast and true, they who the Alliance called monsters."

Another fervent murmur of agreement sounded throughout the chamber, from Rommath most of all. Pathaleon in particular was seething, and it came as no great surprise, given his role in the sin'dorei's escape from Dalaran.

"Vargoth had nothing to do with that, Capernian," Kael shot back. "He's a good man, an honorable man. I'm certain he can be reasoned with. And perhaps these decades of isolation and abandonment by his colleagues might make him more amenable to our overtures than his dwarven comrades. He may well agree with us, or at the least sympathize with what we endured. I've never known him to be anything but fair. Vargoth is not his superiors."

"As you will, my prince," Capernian said. The graciousness in the incline of her head was quite at odds with the fire in her eyes, but she was circumspect. "But I would like to state for the record that I believe it is unwise, and will prove to be as much folly as our attempts to reach out to Kurdran Wildhammer."

Kael nodded, and despite the gravity of the discussion, smiled on the inside; Capernian's hot temper and stubbornness was one of the reasons he'd found her so alluring as a youth. Theirs had truly been a tempestuous affair, fueled hotter by adolescent hormones, and he remembered it fondly still after so many years. "Your dissent is noted, lady Magistrix, and I shall take your counsel under advisement," he said to her, meaning it. He valued her counsel as much as her companionship, in the old days, and was glad to have her here.

"I must concur with Magistrix Darkshadow, your Highness," Pathaleon said. "And if I may be so bold, if we have scouts to spare to search for a Kirin Tor human, surely we might spare one for the Lady Alleria. She was a member of that Alliance expedition, too, as you well know."

Alleria Windrunner. Kael lowered his eyes in guilt at the sound of a name he had not heard in years. They had never seen eye to eye, he and the Ranger-General of Quel'Thalas, because she'd been thick with his father, and believed Kael soft and his loyalties divided. Kael never saw eye to eye with either famed Windrunner, in truth; neither Alleria, nor Sylvanas, the younger sister, who was appointed Ranger-General in Alleria's place when she embarked on that ill-fated expedition, never to return.

"I served with her, my prince," Telonicus said with uncharacteristic gravity in his voice. "If Wildhammer's survived out here all this time surrounded by demons and orcs and Light only knows what else, then I'd say the finest ranger of her generation could damn well manage it. I don't know from Kirin Tor, my prince. I'm no mage, and I'll leave that sort of politicking to you, and Rommath, and the magisters. But I'm a Farstrider, and Alleria was our Ranger-General. She's one of us. For Light's sake, someone ought to tell her what happened to her sister, if nothing else."

Sylvanas, the younger Windrunner sister, was as famously stubborn and grizzled a ranger as lost Alleria, and perished herself in defense of her homeland. Kael felt so much shame, thinking on it, on how much blood had been shed in his absence. It seemed beyond any manner of mortal measure, the sheer amount of death in Quel'Thalas, and the toll war had exacted from his people, and he had not bared witness to any of it, safe within his violet sanctuary. The guilt consumed him then, in truth, though he did his level best not to show it in front of his advisors. Duty and pride wrapped about him like a shield, as always, and he drew himself up even straighter and taller than before, his broad shoulders pushed back, and his head held high.

"You're right, both of you," Kael said, after a long moment. "I don't believe Alleria would require much in the way of persuading, either. We may have had our disagreements, but she was as devoted to her homeland as anyone sworn to its defense. She will answer the call of her people, if she yet lives. I pray she does, and that we might find her somewhere in this Lightforsaken world. Assemble your best scouts, Ruusk. As soon as possible."

"Of course, your Highness," Ruusk said.

"As for Quel'Thalas," Kael continued, "I've elected to appoint a Regent-Lord, to rule in my name and my absence, until such time as our people are reunified in the new homeland, here in Outland. I've chosen Lor'themar Theron, as I believe him well suited to the task."

"An inspired choice, your Highness," Voren'thal said softly. "He is well respected, and served ably to keep order in the camps."

"Theron's a soldier, not a politician," Capernian remarked. "Can you imagine him stalking the halls of the palace with that gigantic blade of his, glowering at people with his one good eye?"

Rommath smiled. "We live in a time of strife, my lady. Perhaps soldiers are required as much as politicians. And I shall be there to advise him on the finer points of diplomacy--I shall guide him as needed."

Capernian snorted, but her lips formed a good-natured smirk. "I'm quite sure you shall, Grand Magister."

"Who will replace him as Ranger-General, my prince?" Solarian asked.

"Halduron Brightwing," Kael answered. "As commander of the Farstriders I believe he's next in the line of succession, isn't he, Telonicus?"

"Indeed, your Highness," Telonicus replied. "And Lady Sylvanas thought as highly of him as she did Theron."

Kael nodded, pleased with the progress made. "Excellent. Is there anything else of import that requires my attention?"

The silence that fell by way of response was the only answer given, and as such the council was adjourned, with all present withdrawing from the chamber to see to their various assignments. Commander Ruusk and Lieutenant Thaladred began the task of mustering the Eclipsion scouts, and sought out volunteers for the expeditionary forces. Rommath would not make his final departure for Azeroth for some days yet, having unfinished business at the Sanctum and many instructions for his magisters. Like as not, he'd be sequestered in councils of his own devising for the time being.

But these things were not on Kael's mind, as such, when he retired that evening to the cavernous bedchamber he shared with Illidan. It was thoughts of the once believed lost Alliance Expedition, some decades earlier, and Alleria Windrunner, one-time Ranger-General of Quel'Thalas, that plagued him as he laid in bed staring at the gauzy canopy, shifting and flittering in the warm night breeze that blew gently through the ornately carved window.

The Burning Legion was a greater threat than anything else on life--even orcs, who were, after all mere pawns in the end, simple fodder for a demonic host. Kael believed this to be true, could not believe any less after the horrors he had seen in the Third War. Even the undead Scourge that so ravaged his homeland and lay waste to a continent was ultimately merely a weapon forged and wielded by demonic masters. The Legion was a threat that brought together orcs, humans, and elves alike, to fight and die at Mount Hyjal by the score. 

But Alleria had not been there to see the chaos and death the Legion left in its wake. She had not seen it, to understand the threat they posed, and why that threat demanded so much in the way of desperate measures to meet. No, Alleria had years prior given what many--himself included--believed to be her life in the defense of Quel'Thalas during the Second War, following the orcish Horde to their own homeworld to hunt them down to the last accursed warlock. Even more than the Amani trolls who had dogged their borders for generations, Alleria's fiercest enemy had ever been orcs; alongside the other Alliance generals, she'd led the charge through the Dark Portal to see their end, in the name of Quel'Thalas. She'd taken what everyone believed a suicide mission, to slay orcs.

Orcs, who now walked the halls of a fortress filled with sin'dorei, and swore allegiance to Kael's lover and savior, for the promise of a sanguine feast such as empowered their brutal kin the first time Quel'Thalas was invaded, and set to the torch. And kin in the literal sense: some who walked the halls of the Black Temple were even of the same kith and clans as those who assailed Eversong. Kael had little doubt some may even have been veterans of that failed invasion. And though they did not speak of it to one another, Illidan himself suspected it, which was why he did not ask Kael, his declared right hand, to be at his side whenever he met with Bladefist. The kaldorei called him “Betrayer”, but Illidan had an abiding sense of decency, despite the ill thoughts of his many detractors. He would not force his beloved to suffer the presence of a man who would have seen his people dead. There was a deep well of compassion in Illidan Stormrage, Kael believed, and it was one of the reasons he loved him so.

But Alleria bore no such love for Illidan, no such reason to trust in his reasoning that these orcs who razed their forests with dragon fire and who were only pushed back by the power of the Sunwell were necessary allies in their struggle against the Legion. Given such an incredulous truth, would the famously obstinate Windrunner be any less defiant than Kurdran Wildhammer, in the end, if she yet lived as he did? Would the call of her people truly be enough to sway her back to their side, in light of such stark ironies? How could Kael demand that Alleria overlook the bedfellows her people were now forced to keep, when he could scarce believe them himself? Even the threat of the Legion, and Kil'jaeden's wrath, could not temper his own distaste for Bladefist's Horde.

Kael believed in Illidan. He could not but do any less, given all they had been through together, and given his love for him. But even if he could accept the practical necessity of it all, it was distasteful to him all the same, and he could not see the wisdom in the manner by which Illidan had secured the orcs' loyalty. It salted old wounds, that--wounds not merely of the Second War, but the Third, and his people's own insatiable thirst in the wake of that most recent conflict. He would not wish such an incalculable thirst on anyone, and the orcs had known it well since Terenas Menethil had their survivors imprisoned. 

Kael had seen the depths of it himself, in the internment camps, and even his elven heart bled from stone for them who had been counted among his worst enemies. 

The very lengths they went to in order to slake that thirst now made that blood run cold, though, and it was his great fear that his own people would succumb in much the same way. Though he spoke of it to no one, not even Illidan, Kael feared that one day even fel energy in all its terrible quickening power would eventually prove inadequate to sate his people, and Bladefist's choice would face them. His greatest fear, however, was that the choice would fall to him, Prince Kael'thas Sunstrider, Lord of the Blood Elves, and in such desperation he would damn all he loved in the choosing. After all, he'd already destroyed the defiled Sunwell in desperation, what foul and corrupt shadow of it there was, and even two years past that would have been unthinkable.

It had been a long two years. How much longer would the years be in this place, where endless darkness shrouded the passing of time?

Kael wondered then, if all this was what Vashj had truly meant all those months ago, when he despaired in the Violet Hold and she spoke of a darker path to freedom for his people. At what price would such freedom come? What would this path truly exact from him in the end, from any of them?

He was startled out of his endless brooding then, as Illidan's massive form shifted beside him in their enormous bed.

"You seem disquieted, love," Illidan murmured, reaching over to stroke Kael's hair. "What troubles you?"

Kael stared up at the ceiling. "This business at the Citadel. I don't like it. Magtheridon's blood, an army of half-mad orcs enslaved...is this truly necessary? Or wise?"

"I dearly value your counsel, my love. Without you, none of what we've accomplished here would have been possible. But you must cast aside your quaint notions of fair play and morality. When Kil'jaeden comes for us, he won't give a damn about such things."

"You ask much of me, master," Kael replied quietly. "Those...'quaint notions' are nearly all I have left. I saw the orcs at the internment camps, and I saw the lethargy that overcame them after the Second War. It was not unlike my own people's malaise when the Sunwell was fouled. This feels..." His words trailed off, as he raised a hand to his brow, shrouding his eyes with a sigh.

Illidan sucked air through his teeth in derision. "Why should your heart bleed for the orcs? You forget...I've seen Gul'dan's memories, through the power of the Skull. I saw what they did to your forests. How they slaughtered your people without a second thought. Do you think they would hesitate if given a second chance here on their own world, where _you_ are the interlopers? All they have ever known is war and barbarity. I'm simply giving them what they want, and keeping their eyes fixed upon the Legion rather than you. Would you still ask if this is wise?"

"I suppose...you're right," Kael sighed, shutting his eyes. He could not fault Illidan's logic. It still unsettled him.

"You want vengeance for your people, do you not?" Illidan pressed. "You wish to see them thrive in this broken wasteland. But Outland is a harsh master, and far crueler than I could ever be. When the time comes, Kael, you must ask yourself what price you're willing to pay to make your dreams a reality. The path before us will only grow darker, and our enemies will not hesitate to destroy us. They will not hold back--and neither must you. Remember the anguish you felt when you returned to Quel'Thalas and saw your homeland destroyed, your Sunwell corrupted, your father little more than ashes. Harness that rage. It is useful, and will see your purpose through."

"Yes, I do wish that. And what you say is true, but--"

"Kael, I've learned through bitter experience that those cowards who would damn you for your vision are never the ones who share in its peril, and they are quick to seize upon your victories for their own benefit even as they recoil and clutch their pearls over the sacrifices that made such victories possible. And they are too quick to claim your glory even as they condemn you. Pay them no heed, and do what you must. Know that no matter what comes, you will always have my support." Illidan firmly took Kael's face into his hands, and gently brushed his cheek with his thumb.

Kael warmed beneath his lover's touch, and nestled in the curve of his powerful arm, resting his cheek against one of the many brands of emerald etched into his flesh, and sighed. Illidan's counsel was fair saturated by ten thousand years of bitterness, but Kael could not fault them any less than his logic. Garithos still used those observational towers in the end, even as he condemned the allies without which Kael's soldiers would never have been able to repair them.

"I understand. But my honor is all I have left, master," Kael breathed into Illidan's skin, his long eyelashes brushing against his chest as he clung to him. "If I lose that too…"

One of Illidan's great, tattered wings enfolded him like a shroud, then, and he held him tightly. "It is not all you have left, my love," Illidan said softly.

The prince clung to his words of solace, as much as his strong embrace, and for not the first time, both were enough to see him through the long night.


	11. An Ethereal Invitation

Kael had not long been risen the next day, leaving the ever nocturnal Illidan still deep in slumber while he attended to the day's correspondence over a cup of strong tea, when there was a polite rapping on the massive doors to their private rooms.

"Yes?" Kael answered from his writing desk, throwing his voice by way of minor cantrip. 

One of the doors opened to reveal a Broken servitor. "The Lady Capernian is here, Prince Kael'thas," the servant rasped in response. "She wishes to see you."

Kael nodded, dismissing the Broken, and High Astromancer Capernian swept past him into the sitting room with imperious grace, garbed exquisitely in a finely embroidered robe of violet silk. He could not help but note the way it clung to her slender form, and did so at length--particularly when she knelt low in a curtsey, her thick black hair falling over one shoulder, revealing the elegant line of her neck. That, too, brought fond memories of Dalaran years past rushing back. But he was a gentleman still, despite his appetites, and kept his admiration discreet.

"Good morning, Capernian," Kael said warmly, setting her at ease. He rose, and offered her a hand, to guide her to a seat on a nearby divan. "Please, let us not stand on ceremony, we know one another too well. To what do I owe the...pleasure of your company?"

Kael was not being remotely serious when he placed the most subtle of emphases on the word, of course, only teasing in his flirtatious manner, but he would not gainsay it either way. Of all his many lovers, he still remembered her fondly.

Capernian was no fool, but smiled despite herself, smoothing the folds of her robe. "Would that it _were_ pleasure, and not business, my prince," she said archly, with just the merest hint of mischief underlying her tone.

"Would that it were, my lady," Kael replied, returning her smile with one of his own. He poured her a cup from the teapot, and offered it to her with the slyest of winks.

She laughed softly then into the back of her raised hand. "Only you would say such things with a lover dozing in the next room, Kael. But alas, I speak the truth when I say it is business that brings me to your chamber. I thought you should know that we had a most interesting visitor arrive at the Sanctum last night, not long after our council concluded."

Kael's feathery eyebrows raised faintly, at that. "Oh?"

"An agent of the Consortium," Capernian said. "And no mere ordinary trader bearing nectar and trinkets, it would seem. Pathaleon's apprentice said she waited patiently for our return from the temple, accompanied by her honor guard, seeking audience with no one less than you. Curious, don't you think?"

Now Kael's curiosity was well and truly piqued. Since their conquest of the Black Temple some months earlier, the Illidari had their share of dealings with the otherworldly race who deemed themselves ethereals, and their erstwhile trade Consortium; indeed, trade was truly their lifeblood, as much as the incorporeal creatures had any. Kael knew this well enough, as he had negotiated more than one agreement with them himself; it was Consortium traders who kept the Temple's larders stocked, and Illidan's soldiers dining on more than tough and gamey felboar. Their merchant caravans were as ubiquitous along the rocky paths through the valley as the nightmare vine that haunted near every crevasse.

But so far as Kael knew, trade was all the Consortium sought. He was no fool to believe that would always be the case; trade and politics went hand in hand, after all, and he had no reason to think even this broken world would be any different in that regard. Still, they'd dealt in naught but foodstuffs and small luxuries of the sort that kept sin'dorei morale high--oils, incense, jewelry, and the like. The occasional artifact, perhaps, but they'd only pursued commerce with Illidan's forces thus far.

"Curious indeed, Capernian. Who is this agent, and what did she want with me?" Kael asked.

"Ambassador Nasira, she called herself, and claimed to have journeyed all the way from the Stormspire, many miles to the north in the Netherstorm, bearing tidings for the Lord of Outland and his loyal Sun Prince from Nexus-Prince Haramad himself, who leads the Consortium. And most curiously, she also bore an invitation for you both to meet with him, at the Stormspire," she answered. Capernian reached into a small, finely crafted leather pouch upon her gilded belt, and pulled out a neatly folded sheaf of parchment sealed with violet wax, to hand it to Kael.

He pursed his lips in thought as he broke the seal--impressed upon it was the crystalline insignia he recognized from the livery every Consortium trader wore over their wrappings. Written in flowing, elegant script with faintly shimmering ink was indeed an invitation to call upon the Nexus-Prince at the Stormspire. "What did you tell her?" he asked, fingering the parchment idly, as the gears of his mind turned.

"That you were presently occupied with Lord Illidan's war efforts, and that I would bear the message to you at the nearest opportunity, but I made no promises as to your answer," Capernian replied. "I saw no need to dissemble to her, and she appeared satisfied enough by my response when she took her leave. In truth, I am curious. The ethereals have a knowledge of the arcane that rivals our own, and in certain areas may even surpass it. I believe there is more to be had in bargaining with them than provisions and trinkets. But I question why this Nexus-Prince is bearing entreaties now, when we have been ensconced here firmly for months, and trading for nearly that long. It bears the stench of opportunism to me."

For all her sometime prickliness, Capernian was as shrewd a courtier as Rommath--and as loyal. Hers was the keen and penetrating mind of an archmage, forever seeking the flaws in arguments, looking beyond the surface of niceties, reading between the lines. And, in truth, it was for those qualities that Kael selected her for his entourage in Dalaran all those years ago, as much as her beauty and skill with the arcane. He trusted her counsel implicitly. 

"Merchants are inherently opportunists," Kael agreed. "They go where the most profit is. I've no doubt they were waiting to see which way the proverbial winds were blowing--whether Lord Illidan was truly a force to be reckoned with or merely a pretender to an uncertain throne. It would appear they've found a satisfactory answer."

"And how will _you_ answer, my prince?" Capernian asked, her eyebrows quirked in curiosity.

Kael pondered her question for a long moment. He agreed heartily with her assessment that the ethereals were worth feeling out for a more substantial alliance, for the knowledge they bore in addition to their provisions; and perhaps this sudden warming of relations was a sign they would be willing to contract their mercenaries at last to Illidan, something they'd thus far refused. Despite his wariness, he also had no intention of alienating a key trade partner, one who'd supplied Illidan's army quite well.

Then there was the Netherstorm, and the mysteries and possibilities it held. Something within him, perhaps an archmage's intuition, kept tugging at him about that region. It seemed everything was pointing to that place of late, and he did not believe it mere coincidence. 

Still, he was wary. Kael did not believe the Nexus-Prince had perfidy on the mind, not for a moment; the Consortium's coffers had been considerably fattened since Illidan seized Magtheridon's throne, and they stood to gain far too much more in the way of profit to risk it. He spoke truly, when he said to Capernian that he believed they were waiting to see how matters would fall out between Illidan and the Legion before making overtures. And the Legion was clearly in decline in Outland. It had been penned in to one stronghold in Shadowmoon Valley, and Illidan's forces were growing stronger by the day, despite the losses taken in Northrend. They would be fools to turn on their best clientele, and Kael did not believe the ethereals were fools by any means.

But it would not do for the Lord of Outland to come running at the beck and call of any who summoned him. Kael also believed that rather strongly. It was a delicate balance to keep, certainly, and the Illidari could not show signs of weakness or desperation. Illidan had to exude the strength of his position--even if it were occasionally more precarious than they let on--and that would be compromised if he were to go a-begging to the Stormspire. He smiled then, a plan forming in his mind.

"I will say that if the Nexus-Prince Haramad wishes to bear tidings to the Lord of Outland, then let him come to the Black Temple and do so in person," Kael said at last, grinning. "Lord Illidan would be glad to receive them, and I as well. Truly, it's been quite some time since we last had a fete--too long I think. Tell Rommath to make an invitation of our own."

Capernian answered Kael's grin with one of her own, devious and amused. "Rommath always did adore a party. He'll be truly sorry to miss it, you realize." 

"Not if I tell him it's in his honor," Kael replied, his grin broader. "The Grand Magister of Quel'Thalas should be seen back to Azeroth with all the honor due his exalted station, don't you think? And if the Nexus-Prince Haramad were to attend, all the better. Let the Consortium see how the sin'dorei make use of their largesse, and how Lord Illidan treats those who swear loyalty to him. Spread the word, Capernian: it's time to be somewhat more than soldiers again."

So it was that Kael fetched parchment and ink from his writing desk, and sent Capernian back to the Sanctum of the Stars carrying two missives, bearing the golden phoenix device of House Sunstrider imprinted on crimson wax: one, a reply to Ambassador Nasira of the Consortium, inviting the Nexus-Prince to the Black Temple in three weeks' time for a fete in honor of Kael's right hand, and another to Rommath himself, explaining what he had in mind. Then, he set to making out a number of personal invitations to select august persons within the Illidari, those for whom word from Capernian--the prince's aide, and not the prince himself--might be considered a slight.

It was not merely subterfuge and political gamesmanship that motivated Kael in this endeavor, of course. The sin'dorei had become a hedonistic people in the wake of the tremendous tragedy and hardship they'd suffered, and morale was on his mind. A celebration of their recent triumphs was something he believed would do them all a great deal of good, particularly with the shadow of Northrend still cast long over them. But beyond even that, there were more personal motivations at work. Kael was still plagued by a gnawing sense of guilt that he'd neglected Rommath, caught up as he was in the throes of life with a new paramour; and his decision to send Rommath back to Quel'Thalas--even if it were the man's own idea--did not soothe that guilt in the slightest, only compounding it. Their argument the previous day weighed on Kael, still.

He wanted to do this much for Rommath. Kael wanted to show his oldest and dearest companion, in a manner beyond words, that it truly _was_ only shared duty to their people which drove him to send him back to their ruined kingdom. Merely duty, and not a cooling of passions or lessening of affection. He wanted Rommath to know that he was still loved, regardless of Kael's whirlwind romance with Illidan, and whatever might happen with Vashj. He believed it was the least Rommath deserved--to be so honored before all their allies, particularly after everything the magister had been through.

With Capernian sent off, there was one other person Kael needed to make aware of his plans. Some few hours later, after consulting with his quartermasters, he ventured to the private garden within the Den of Mortal Delights and found his beloved master there, meditating amidst the flowers as he was wont to do. 

Silent and contemplative, Illidan sat cross-legged on a soft, round carpet on the floor, his powerfully muscled chest heaving slowly with each deep breath.

Kael stood there in the open doorway for a long moment, gazing upon him with fondness, not wanting to intrude upon his tranquility. The prince smiled at the sight of his lover at such peace. Perhaps it was mere wishful thinking on his part, but he believed that it was coming easier to Illidan now.

" _Dalah'surfal,_ " Illidan breathed softly, remaining still upon the floor. Kael was no longer startled at such moments, the sudden recognition of his presence by his blind master; not now, after so long knowing him. Instead, he smiled, that Illidan could still sense him even when sunk in the depths of his meditations, with his consciousness turned deep within his oft-tortured soul.

"I love you," Kael said quietly, impulsively, and for a moment forgot that it was not simply a social call that brought him to Illidan. He could not help but be moved by the picture of dark beauty and serenity before him. 

But moved as he was by Illidan's beauty--he was, after all, an elf--Kael made himself focus upon why he was there, disrupting such a picture.

Illidan, for his part, bore the news with his typical apathy when Kael entered the sanctuary, and they sat at the table to converse. Politics were not the demon hunter's utmost concern, and Kael had realized that fairly early on in service to him; Illidan was one who craved the prestige of rulership, the power and accolades it brought, but seldom wielded it in the temporal sense. Illidan relished the adoration it brought above all else. Lordship over anything for its own sake had never been what drove him, Kael had come to learn in time, and it was part of why he loved him so. Survival was the only reason he sought dominion over Outland; survival, and the magic this mysterious, broken world held. Always, with Illidan, there was the hunger for magic, and forbidden knowledge. He craved it like little else.

Kael came to realize too, early on, that Illidan was starved for the respect he deserved. Above all else, Illidan wanted to be adored. Politics, he left to Kael, and Vashj; Illidan trusted the two of them to negotiate it on his behalf, while his mind was fixed upon other matters, among them his schemes with the orcs. What manner of court existed in the Black Temple consisted of sin'dorei, naga, and their demonic allies. Kael's meetings with his many advisors were of little consequence to Illidan, so long as Kael was content and the sin'dorei primed to fight for him as needed, which they always were.

At mention of the fete, however, Illidan's indifference turned to curiosity. "A reception, here at the temple, with you as host?" he asked, over a plate of sliced fruits. A Broken servitor had brought them discreetly at Kael's command, along with a selection of writing implements.

Kael absently moistened the nib of his quill upon his tongue, before dipping it in an inkwell and setting it to parchment. "Yes, master. I believe the Consortium is testing the waters for something more than a trade alliance, and the ethereals are an urbane, sophisticated people. A fete would go a long way to cement their loyalty," he replied, as he wrote out instructions in his flowing, graceful hand. "And truth be told, my own people are social creatures. We've been on a war footing for nearly three years now, with little cause to celebrate. Beyond the political necessity, I believe it will do us all a world of good." He paused, smiling at Illidan. "Yourself included." 

Illidan raised his eyebrows at that, holding a bit of salted melon hovering before his lips. "Why do you say that?" 

"Because when you aren't sequestered in council, or deep in some arcane text, all you do is brood," Kael said gently. "You are the sovereign Lord of Outland, master, yet you've only known the burdens of rulership, and reap none of the pleasures of it." 

"I visit the Den," Illidan protested with a snort, gesturing to the lush chambers beyond the doorway. 

"Indeed, and I do not wish to impugn the quality of Lady Shahraz's company. But carnal delights are not the only kind of pleasure there is, and you might enjoy others from time to time, love," Kael replied with another smile. 

Illidan snickered, a long, pointed violet ear twitching with mirth. "That's rather droll coming from you, my young prince. I thought you thoroughly enjoyed carnal delights."

"Well, yours are especially delightful," Kael said, grinning. "Nonetheless, my point stands. I know you're often a man of extremes, but is there no pastime somewhere between orgies and meditation with which to occupy yourself, master?"

"Forgive me, my _thero'shan_ ," Illidan said softly, as he reached across the table, and took Kael's hand into his own, scarred and calloused. His thumb glided across Kael's knuckles, stroking the smooth skin, and Kael suppressed a sigh of pleasure at his unwontedly gentle touch. "I've just...I spent ten thousand years chained in darkness, much of it denied the presence of others, even that of my accursed gaolers. Always, I was alone with my thoughts, my nights spent in endless tedium. Sometimes I fear I've lost what it means to be in the world, and simply live. Tedium was a boon companion, in truth. My only one, for an eon. And I realize it made me a poor one for you, Kael. I'm sorry."

The fel emerald light of Illidan's shrouded gaze dimmed for a moment, and it seemed then, as it did so often, that he was a world away from Outland--from Kael--when he fell silent. In such moments, when his cursed vision extended beyond the enchantments and the flows of magic in blood, bone, and earth, Kael wondered what Illidan saw. Kael knew there were many places Illidan's mind drifted to when he fell silent like this, places he could not follow with impassioned declarations of loyalty and oaths of undying devotion.

It was at such times that he remembered who his lover and savior truly was. It was at such times that Kael remembered the truth of the life Illidan had led.

It was easy in the dark of night, with the weight of his tall and powerful body pressed against him, flush with desire and driving him to heights of untold pleasure, for Kael to forget what had befallen Illidan long before they had ever met. It was easy to forget, in a temple fortress full of his loyal warriors, that Illidan Stormrage had worn the mantle of "Lord of Outland" upon his shoulders for far shorter a time than he had "The Betrayer". It was easy to forget, when blood-gorged orcs beat their chests and zealous shivarra uttered his name as a battle cry and prayer by turns, that "Betrayer" was no mere epithet, that it had been a sentence of judgment, a word of damnation uttered by his own flesh and blood--the sundered half of his soul, his own twin--which cast him down into darkness to languish for an eternity, lost and forgotten.

Illidan was like no one Kael had ever known. It was true; it was why Kael, who'd wanted for no amount of pleasure or companionship, found him so impossibly alluring. It was why Kael had come to harbor such foolish romantic dreams of being the one to melt his wounded heart, to coax smiles and sighs of pleasure from his brooding lips, and why he was so damned smug that he did. Vashj had called him a heartsick fool once, and he'd denied it then, but deep down he'd known it was true even then, long before he and Illidan became something more than a master and his loyal consigliere.

But it was altogether too easy sometimes for Kael to not grasp the true meaning of it--of what it meant to love someone who'd been imprisoned against his will for millennia, bereft of companionship or even simple kindness, while the world far above him spun on without him. Illidan had not been free in the world since he was a youth barely of his majority; Azeroth had barely sundered to its component continents then, and humans had not even existed. What was three years of freedom to an immortal who'd spent ten thousand in brutal captivity? What was barely half a year of love and companionship to a man who'd spent eons--the very lifespan of a civilization, Kael's own--in the direst isolation and solitude? The span of a heartbeat, perhaps, if even that.

_I've been a martyr for ten-thousand years, Kael. Should I know anything different?_

They had been words spoken upon the selfsame terrace where they sat this day, more than a month ago, and they came back to Kael as he gazed upon Illidan's chiseled face, aching and beloved. He found himself grieving, and not for the first time, for what Illidan endured. For the choices he made, for the path he tread, for the singular sacrifice he made of himself, and for the eternal enmity it earned him. For his folly and for his sorrow. It was grief Kael felt, tempered by pride, that he endured it. Truly, Illidan yet endured, for all that two worlds and more sought otherwise.

And Light above, did Kael love him for it.

"Don't apologize to me, love," Kael said softly, lifting Illidan's caressing hand to his mouth and kissing his scarred knuckles with the utmost tenderness. "I only wish to be a comfort to you. I wasn't lying when I said that."

"And you are, more than you could ever know," Illidan confessed. He gently slipped from Kael's light grasp, and rested his hand against Kael's cheek, cupping it in his palm. The warmth of his touch was like nothing else on life; Kael found himself leaning into it again, as Illidan's thumb caressed the height of his cheekbone, the talon lightly brushing his skin. It set Kael's pulse to racing.

"I almost believe it when you say that," Kael sighed softly, tilting his head to plant a kiss upon Illidan's calloused palm. 

"I fear I have lost touch with normalcy long before you were ever born." Illidan chuckled darkly to himself, with sardonic self-deprecation, before he continued. "Some might argue I was never in touch with it at all--namely, my brother. Still, it is difficult for me to live as a normal man does, the way you might expect of a companion. But I am trying, Kael. For my own sake, and yours. And if you believe this fete will help, then I will gladly attend."

Kael laughed a little, nuzzling Illidan's hand. "What should 'normal' mean to ones such as us, master? We dwell together in a desecrated temple, nestled in the ruins of a world far from our own, surrounded by demons and serpents and blood-drunk orcs. And who defines it, at any rate? We live in extraordinary times, and live the best we can, as the times shape us in profound ways. It is all we can do, in the end. Normalcy is overrated, anyway. I would rather grasp a fleeting moment of the extraordinary than live a whole lifetime of 'normal'," Kael said.

"Let us make the most of it then," Illidan agreed, lowering his hand from Kael's face with one last caress of his finger. "Because I wish for it to last. What do you need of me, for this fete?"

Kael stared at him intently with pursed lips, his eyes glancing the length of Illidan's body, half-obscured though it was by the table. For once he was not ogling his handsome lover for the sake of it, but rather...taking stock of certain matters. He leaned back in his chair, and raised his brows at the wrappings about Illidan's wrists, the tattered _obi_ trimmed by lightly stained fur at his waist which held up old breeches with worn, fraying hems. And Kael pursed his lips into an ever so slight frown.

"To visit a tailor," he answered diplomatically, his expression as deadpan as possible, though his stare was meaningful.

Fortunately, there were a number of them counted among the sin'dorei forces at the temple, who produced the standards and livery worn by all the various Illidari forces. Kael required someone of suitable vision to garb the Lord of Outland and his second-in-command, however, and no mere seamstress. Though Kael's own clothier--the Lady Alexandra, who earned considerable fame adorning him in Dalaran--was a human mage of the Kirin Tor and perished in Lordaeron's fall, Kael's people were nothing if not skilled, creative, and resourceful. Before a full day had passed, his discreet inquiries to Capernian produced the name of a young healer whom everyone from Capernian herself to Rommath to the Lady Shahraz swore was also the most talented couturiere among not only the sin'dorei, but the whole of the Illidari.

Magistrix Amelia was slight and lovely, with bronze skin and wavy silvery hair pulled back into a tight braid. She worked surrounded by a bevy of apprentices--including, most curiously to Kael, a small number of naga sirens--out of a makeshift atelier in the sin'dorei quarters of the Black Temple, when she was not at work at the Sanctum of the Stars conducting arcane research, or in the field leading Eclipsion patrols. The atelier was fair bustling with activity, Amelia and her team of tailors and seamstresses having already taken on any number of commissions for the Prince's fete. Word travelled briskly in the Black Temple, it would seem.

When Kael and Illidan arrived for their appointment that evening, the young lady was quite simply starstruck.

"My lords, you do me the utmost honor. I shall strive to be worthy of it," she said, somewhere around four times, before Kael gently bid her to rise from her low curtsey without outstretched hands, helping her upright. 

"You came with the highest recommendation, my lady magistrix," Kael said with a reassuring smile. "I'm sure you will."

Amelia's tawny skin became flush with crimson as she stared up at Illidan, who rather casually towered over her. "Shall we begin with you, my lord?" she asked, her voice filled with quiet awe.

"By all means," Illidan chuckled.

Amelia was barely at eye level with his waist, and it made for a rather comical sight. To his credit, Illidan did not even crack a smile when the diminutive priestess was forced to whisper an incantation that held her gently aloft in the air before him, so that she might stand eye to eye with the comparatively gargantuan demon hunter in order to begin taking his measurements. 

"Oh, my," she mumbled to herself, as her arms stretched a length of measuring cord across his wing span, and halfway along ran out of tape and slender arm in kind. Her thick lips curled into a frown. "Penelope, dear! I think we may need a longer tape. And your arms."

Penelope, it seemed, was a dark-haired beauty a fair bit taller than tiny Amelia--in truth, she was closer to Kael's height, and between the two of them they managed to measure out Illidan's top half without much trouble, though Penelope required a step stool. Together, the couturieres stretched out the length of cord across his broad shoulders, his thickly muscled biceps, and chiseled torso, making notations on a sheet of parchment. He stood patiently, extending his arms and lowering them at the ladies' silent commands, without a word of complaint.

The bottom half was another story entirely.

Amelia blushed again, and far deeper, but her eyes narrowed in shrewd appraisal of Illidan, glancing downward. "You'll have to strip, my lord," she said a bit absently, dismissing her spell and lowering herself gently back to the floor.

Illidan stared blankly at her. "I beg your pardon, milady?" he spluttered, after a moment.

"It's for accuracy, my lord," erstwhile Penelope explained, trying very hard to hold in her tittering. Kael thought she did an admirable job of it, all things considered.

"It's necessary, my lord. I'm sorry," Amelia added by way of halfhearted apology, with absolutely no sincerity whatsoever. Her hungry eyes rather betrayed it too. Kael smiled.

Though Kael could almost see the enchanted spheres of fel iron rolling skyward behind Illidan's blindfold, the Lord of Outland sighed and obediently untied the stays from his _obi,_ removing it and allowing his loose-fitting trousers to drop in a pool of fabric at his hooves.

Somewhere, an apprentice gasped and dropped a bundle on the carpeted floor with a muffled yet distinct thud.

Amelia's breath caught in her throat involuntarily, her eyes taking in the feast of chiseled, powerfully muscled flesh before her. Penelope gasped and her hand absently drifted to her gaping mouth, the other touching Illidan's massive thigh muscle with no small amount of awe. Truly, Kael could hardly blame either of them.

Still, he covered his mouth and laughed at the tittering women as they bent low, stretching out their cords. Somewhere behind them, the sirens of the atelier nudged one another with their myriad arms and covered their own grinning mouths; one made a rather scandalous gesture with her hand, and the others laughed wickedly. More than once, Amelia and Penelope stole surreptitious, curious glances at Kael as they took their measure of Illidan, their heads close together as they whispered conspiratorially in low tones with one another like giggling schoolgirls.

Neither seemed to be aware that the demon hunter, though conventionally blind, nonetheless possessed near-preternatural hearing.

" _Anar'alah belore! He'_ s _enormous_ ," Amelia whispered from behind her free hand.

" _I've never seen a man so..._ " Penelope agreed in hushed tones. " _How do they even...?_ "

"Carefully," Illidan murmured in deadpan nonchalance, with only the faintest hint of a smirk upon his lips.

They laughed in embarrassment, glancing guiltily at Kael, who simply inclined his head with a good natured smile, and a cheeky wink.

"Oh look at us Penny. We're like a pair of adolescent party girls at the Academy," Amelia said with a little self-deprecating laugh. She rose to her feet and glanced up at towering Illidan, and then over to Kael. "My apologies, my lords, for being so dreadfully unprofessional."

"It's no trouble, young miss," Illidan said, his tone filled with amusement. In truth, he seemed to take the attention in stride. Kael found it terribly endearing, the way his tattooed chest puffed out as Amelia eyed him speculatively, beckoning him to turn and pose just so, like some great living doll.

"He is rather impressive, isn't he?" Kael said, which set them all to giggling again.

"Very," Amelia agreed, tapping her chin with a thoughtful finger. "I shall strive to do his fine physique justice, your highness," she added impishly, with a little curtsey. "And you as well, my lord prince. I believe it's your turn."

"The pleasure is mine, my lady," Kael replied. He was never bashful, being accustomed as a prince to people fussing over him, and disrobed with grace, to the barely contained swoons of all present in the atelier. Amelia did not require the aid of her partner to take his measurements, but Penelope eagerly offered it nonetheless, all too thrilled at the prospect of getting up close and personal with her prince's lean, muscular body. Kael didn't begrudge them this and merely smiled at them indulgently. He was beautiful, and he knew it; he reveled in the attention. 

Stripped to his crimson briefs, Kael held out his arms, and exchanged a number of lingering glances with his couturieres. At one point, Amelia knelt before him to measure his toned calves, and Kael gazed down upon her with a smoldering look that she returned boldly.

It was utterly ridiculous, but Kael couldn't help himself. He never could, where a beautiful face was concerned.

"Behave yourself, Ami," Penelope murmured, as she scribbled notations on a sheet of parchment.

"I always do," Amelia said rather innocently, circling Kael much like a shark, her eyes bright and calculating. 

Kael didn't believe her for a moment.

When the process was at last complete, Amelia curtseyed once more and guided Kael and Illidan to a couch--fully clothed, to the chagrin of the atelier's artisans (though where Illidan was concerned, "fully clothed" was always something of an inappropriate misnomer, what with his pragmatic penchant for shirtlessness). A Broken servitor fetched ink and heavy parchment at her command.

"Now, my lords," Amelia began crisply, "we get down to business, for I believe these bespoke garments must capture the essence of who you are, not merely the message you wish to send. Are we of an accord, gentlemen?"

Kael began to understand why she was recommended so highly, then. "Indeed, my lady. That is precisely what I had in mind."

She smiled. "Excellent, your highness. Now, Lord Illidan reigns supreme over Outland, and his attire must reflect his sovereignty, his dark majesty," she continued. "Darkness, yes, and primal, dangerous beauty. Both night elf and demon, yet together something more, something greater than the sum of his parts. His body itself is a work of art, and should not be overwhelmed, I think. Here..."

Amelia furiously began sketching a design, at once deceptively simple yet elegant and heavy with significance; she refined it after few moments of back and forth critique and debate with Kael. Illidan, for his part, observed the pair with a measure of detachment, asking the occasional question, clarifying the occasional concern. But he leaned in with fascination as he did so, fully engaged, and approving of the final design with a satisfied nod.

"Wonderful. And for you, your highness," Amelia said, pursing her lips in thought. "For you, shining Sun Prince of Quel'Thalas...I think I have just the thing."

It took much less time for Kael and Amelia to agree on his own attire; designing for her prince, with much more familiar stature and proportions and coloring, was far less of a challenge, it would seem. Light, airy, yet structured was the theme, and like Illidan's was deceptively simple. 

Rommath had commissioned her also, as it turned out, and it set fire to Kael's imagination wondering what he might be wearing. He held his curiosity in check and did not ask, however. Kael wanted to be surprised.

At last, Amelia summoned her sirens, and Kael and Illidan were shown a variety of fine fabrics, settling on a number of magically imbued bolts; when she was not aiding her much shorter compatriot, Penelope was a tremendously skilled enchanter, and worked her craft on each bolt, each thread, each garment. Amelia's free-flowing hand noted specific and detailed instructions for dying the fabric for Kael's garments, which were given to the sirens. 

There was a significance to this process beyond prosaic concerns of craft. While most sin'dorei favored the color red in general, and many would likely wear some shade of it to the reception, the sumptuous deep red known as al'arine crimson was by far the most striking, and it was a color by custom and law restricted to the royal Sunstrider line. So unique a color it was that by the laws of the Royal Thalassian Guild of Couturiers, none but the Grand Couturier and their select apprentices knew the precise formula for the dye. It was a secret passed down from master to apprentice for generations.

Yet no Sunstrider had worn al'arine crimson since High King Dath'Remar himself. Not even Kael's signature heavy robes and mantle were that shade of red, but somewhat lighter.

It was this very legendary hue that Amelia intended to use for Kael's attire.

"An inspired choice, my lady," Kael said, swallowing down an unexpected pang of emotion.

Amelia inclined her head, with a sad smile. "My mother was a dressmaker in the Grand Atelier in Silvermoon, your highness. When the Scourge laid siege to the Shepherd's Gate, she gave me the key to the Royal Couturier's vault, and bade me save the formula. I've kept it on me ever since," she said.

"What of your mother, young miss?" Illidan asked gently. Amelia lowered her quill, along with her eyes.

"She never made it out of the Bazaar," Amelia sighed. But she held her head up then, chin upturned, with a sudden fierceness in her eyes. "But I honored her last wish. I saved that formula. For the glory of House Sunstrider, and our people. It did not pass from the world as so much else did."

Some might have believed it frivolous, a testament to elven vanity and superficiality, that a simple dye formula--knowledge of how to make one specific color, for one specific family--would be so prized, so fiercely protected, so treasured, as though it were some manner of sacred artifact.

Those people were not sin'dorei. 

Kael understood. He grasped Amelia's hand, and kissed it chastely, with none of the casual flirtation he showed earlier. "House Sunstrider is in your debt, my lady," Kael said solemnly.

"Please, your highness," Amelia said. "I never thought I would attire the High Prince of Quel'Thalas, or a legend out of time and athenaeum texts. I only wish to be worthy of such an honor. I shall do my best, I swear it. Forgive me, my lords, but I must confer with my assistants. There is a great deal of work to do before the fete."

"Of course, my lady," Kael said, rising with Illidan from the couch. "We wouldn't want to keep you."

"Thank you," Illidan added with a low rumble. "I look forward to the end product."

With that, Amelia curtseyed to them both, and disappeared in a whirlwind of activity, her assistants vying for her attention.

Kael and Illidan quietly took their leave of the atelier.

"Your people's loyalty is remarkable," Illidan remarked, as they walked down the corridor, returning to their quarters. "As is their zeal. It heartens me to see how much they care for you."

Kael smiled, and leaned against Illidan, slipping his arm around his waist. "They care for you just as much, master," he replied. Illidan snorted rather dubiously at that, but Kael added: "you saved us."

"Vashj saved you," Illidan countered.

"And she would not be here if not for you," Kael said. "None of us would."

Illidan gave one of his slight, self-deprecating smiles in reply, and Kael wondered if he truly understood that, or understood the depth of Lady Vashj's devotion to him, where it came from. Again, Kael found himself melancholy at the thought of her absence, and dearly hoped she would be in attendance. Hers was the first invitation he made out, after Nexus-Prince Haramad's, and Rommath's. He could only hope her reply would be swiftly forthcoming, as he set about in his preparations.

In truth, the days that followed their appointment with Amelia found Kael in a near constant rush of activity, determined as he was to take a personal role in every aspect of the planning. Between fittings at the atelier and his usual war councils, he spoke with the botanist Magister Freywinn Sunseeker at the Sanctum regarding the procurement and placement of flora. With Solarian's aid, he located a number of sin'dorei with musical skill, and did not have to impress a sense of need to win their engagement; they were thrilled to be called upon by their prince at all, and for somewhat other than their skill with blade, bow, or spell.

Indeed, the Black Temple and the Sanctum of the Sun alike were fair buzzing with excitement over the affair. Kael's estimation that his people were in dire need of frivolity after nearly three years of constant struggle was altogether accurate, it would seem. It also seemed that their enthusiasm was rather infectious: the Illidari demons joined in, those of higher sentience, at least. Kael was treated more than once to the rather comical sight of a satyr honing his craft with a set of wooden pipes, as he traversed the temple's halls.

When the Consortium's reply came, confirming the attendance of the Nexus-Prince and a delegation of his ethereals, Kael was heartened, but it threw something of a snag into the menu planning. It occurred to him quite suddenly, one day in the temple kitchens with Capernian, as sin'dorei chefs presented a number of dishes for his approval.

"What do they eat, these ethereals?" Kael asked, glancing over a selection of hors d'oeuvres. " _Do_ they eat? They're incorporeal, after all. Do they even require sustenance in the manner of other beings?"

"I spoke of it with one of the traders once, actually. It seems they do, in fact, consume foodstuffs...though they are rather exotic, as foodstuffs go. All of their food and drink is derived from gemstones, and their bodies render it into pure energy once consumed," Capernian replied.

"Fascinating. I don't suppose your trader had any of it for sale, did he?" Kael asked.

"I can do one better, in fact. One of the more...eccentric Sunseeker alchemists at the Sanctum has been making a study of ethereal cuisine, apparently, and purchased a tome of recipes and methods a fortnight past," Capernian answered. "I'm not entirely certain whether or not the resulting experiments are fit to serve a prince of the ethereals, but our trader appeared to enjoy them well enough a day or so past, and spoke highly of the lady's offerings."

Kael nodded. "Good. Have her train the cooks in her methods. I want Haramad and his people to feel suitably welcome here. A pleased palate leads to pleasing conversation, and pleasing politics are sure to follow," he said.

"Now you sound like one of those fools at the Legerdemain," Capernian chuckled, but smiled softly in affection at the memory of Dalaran's most famous inn--famed in equal parts for its hospitality and its intrigue. She sounded a bit wistful when she continued. "This is just like the old days in the Sunlit Court, isn't it?"

"Except our guests are even more exotic," Kael agreed, answering her smile with one of his own. Truly, he had been known as a gracious host during his time in Dalaran, and parties at the Sunstrider estate, exclusive though they were--Kirin Tor or not, he _was_ royalty--were always counted by those in attendance as the highlights of the social calendar in Dalaran. And Kael hadn't had the opportunity to play host since those halcyon days; perhaps this was as much about his own morale as his people's. It was a welcome distraction, for all its political and personal necessity, and he genuinely enjoyed the planning. It was why he threw himself into it with such gusto.

"Indeed," Capernian replied. "Speaking of which, you may be pleased to hear that a delegation of naga returned from the cistern, and that I spoke with Fathom-Lord Karathress this morning. He asked me to inform you that Lady Vashj received your invitation, and will be in attendance."

Kael let out a breath he did not realize he'd been holding in, one inhaled at mention of the naga. A palpable sense of relief washed over him. Vashj's continued silence wounded him, and he had not realized how much the wound festered until he heard Capernian speak her name. Deep down, he'd begun to fear that Vashj was truly wroth with him, that he had pushed her too far in his concern for her. He'd thrown himself into his duties and other concerns in part to take his mind off it.

Which manner of invitation the High Priestess of Nazjatar meant to answer, however, was another concern entirely. Still, Kael took the acceptance as a welcome sign that their relationship had not been damaged beyond repair by the weighty revelations shared in a terrifyingly aching moment of intimacy within the Coilskar grotto. She answered, and that was all that mattered to him. The rest would play out as it would, at her readiness, in accordance with her own will. Kael was firm in that belief, in that silent vow he made to himself. He was not Azshara, to force her hand.

"Thank you, Capernian," he said at last in genuine gratitude. "It does please me, a great deal."

Capernian's fine, dark brows raised ever so slightly, but she decided discretion was the better part of valor, and thus said nothing on Kael's moment of silence before speaking. Like Rommath, she'd come to know him well enough to gauge his moods, and despite her sometime prickliness, she also knew when to leave well enough alone. "By your leave, my prince, I'll confer with the naga quartermaster on which delicacies are pleasing to them," she said. "What they expect to be served at a formal table, as opposed to the field."

"Of course," Kael said, rising from the table to take his leave of the kitchens. His final fitting with Amelia beckoned. "I trust your judgment."

The High Prince of Quel'Thalas had indeed been fortunate enough in his life to have such judgment he could trust, even in the most seemingly mundane of matters as menu planning. He thought of Rommath again as he made for the eastern wing of the temple, and the atelier. Kael had been so busy with his preparations for the party that he'd scarce found time to confer with the guest of honor. Rommath's own preparations for his imminent return to Quel'Thalas had occupied him as much, and he'd sent his reply to the invitation via courier, thanking his prince for his graciousness; he confirmed that he would gladly attend, doing his best to further the aims of Lord Illidan and his prince in diplomacy. It was a touch formal, but rather expected. Kael knew that whenever Rommath was uncertain of protocol--an exceedingly rare occurrence, mind--he fell back upon formality. It was as much a comfort to him as anything, something upon which he could lean in times of uncertainty.

And for the first time in years, perhaps ever, the protocol of their situation _was_ uncertain. Kael was Illidan's right hand, his treasured lieutenant and the general of his armies. That he was also Illidan's lover was common knowledge; though it was not something they spoke openly about, it was hardly something they especially hid, either. This fete, however, would make what had to that point been merely quietly acknowledged gossip plain at last in the most public of manners. Though it was technically being held in Rommath's honor, as Grand Magister of Quel'Thalas, it was also for all intents and purposes a reception of state. The first such reception Illidan would hold as Lord of Outland, receiving a powerful merchant prince of another race.

It was also reception that Kael was hosting. It was by his invitation that the Nexus-Prince would attend. Not one among the Illidari forces questioned it at the temple; why would he not direct such a function, when he was directing the war effort? It was another thing entirely, however, to stand at Illidan's side as he received a potential ally in state, even as they toasted a loyal courtier for his service. Such a thing would send a distinct message--not merely to their allies and to the ethereals, but to all of Outland. As word carried across the broken world along the Consortium's myriad trade routes, by traders dealing in gossip as surely as goods, it would be unmistakable: the Lord of Outland did not rule by his lonesome, and the Lord of the Blood Elves was no mere vassal or consigliere. Kael would be perceived as Illidan's consort, and perhaps rightly so. To have fallen into the role so naturally and with such ease was one thing; to be viewed and acknowledged as such by Outland would be quite another.

It was something that weighed heavily upon Kael, even unto his return to the atelier and the scrutiny of Amelia's exacting eye. Kael was thoroughly distracted by such thoughts of politics during the fitting. He scarcely marked the tailors' adjustments to his garments or Amelia's sharp and precise instructions to them, ruminating instead on the changing nature of his role and how it would be perceived. The whole point of this fete, beyond even the political concerns, was to remind Rommath of his value to Kael. Not simply his political value as an advisor and courtier, not even his value as a magister of unparalleled skill and cunning, but as his lover, as his closest friend since childhood. How would being perceived and acknowledged as another man's consort color that purpose? Would it be tainted, no matter the truth of the arrangement? Kael would not forget the fear in Rommath's voice, nor the bitterness when he believed himself exiled and unwanted.

And how in the world would Lady Vashj perceive it? Illidan-- the secret desire of her heart since before even the Sunwell was conceived--with Kael at his side playing the dutiful master of the house so to speak...would she consider them both denied to her, regardless of Kael's words to the contrary in the grotto? Would such a sight be too much for her to countenance, would it be the thing that severed her at last from them?

Trepidation and uncertainty seized Kael in a vice grip, as tightly as the tailors gripped their needles presently piercing the fabric of his hem. Perhaps Kael had acted in haste in the planning of this fete. Perhaps he'd been so pleased with this seemingly perfect solution to a number of disparate problems that he'd miscalculated, and not foreseen the dangers. His father had always said that was Kael's one real flaw as an archmage: that once he believed he found an answer, he possessed a nearly implacable belief in the certainty of his rightness. Such belief was commendable, of course, but only to a point; not when it led Kael to miss or underestimate critical flaws in his answer. Overweening pride could easily lead to arrogance, and sometimes it did for Kael. In time, he had grudgingly come to admit that his father was right about that--though his father pointedly refused to admit the truth of just where Kael acquired that particular character trait. He felt a rueful sense of melancholy thinking of it, of how alike they truly were.

Still, the thought that Kael might well have solved one romantic dilemma while exacerbating another filled him with dread. When the the tailors' work was at last complete, Kael smiled graciously, the picture of cordial regality in spite of his inner turmoil--he'd been trained from birth to be as much no matter how he felt inside, after all--and took his leave of the atelier, brooding all the while; on bittersweet memories of his late father, on the mistakes he made. 

Most of all, Kael brooded on Lady Vashj and Rommath, and whether or not he was right to attempt melding the personal with the political, despite its seeming inevitability in his life, as a prince and Lord of the Blood Elves, and as lover and vassal of the ruler of a burgeoning empire.

One week, and he would know for certain.

 


	12. Ornaments of Gold

Tension filled Kael as much as anticipation, and it all seemed to reach a fever pitch several nights later, when the appointed date for the fete arrived at last. He felt taut like a bowstring and sequestered himself within the chambers he shared with Illidan, trying in vain to bury himself in some dry, arcane treatise to distract his brooding mind. A light, persistent throbbing at his temple did little to improve his mood, and it was like as not due to hunger; he'd only halfheartedly picked at a plate of fruit and cheese in the morning, and that was all the repast he'd managed that day.

Since there was nothing else to be done for it, Kael decided to make ready for the reception. However, just as he rose to utilize the bath in his personal chamber down the corridor, there was a polite rapping at the door, stunning him out of his brooding.

"Yes?" he called.

To Kael's surprise, the voice that answered was not the expected gravel-choked rasp of a Broken servant, but rather the rich and sultry voice of a demon--a shivarra, by Kael's estimation, judging from the particular reverberation it held. "Lord Illidan requests your presence in his private baths, my lord _desh'arat._ Your attire has been delivered there," she said.

Kael blinked, tilting his head in curiosity at the unfamiliar epithet. When the Illidari first seized control of the Black Temple and accepted oaths of allegiance from those demonic minions of Magtheridon who'd surrendered, Kael had resolved to make a study of the various demonic tongues--Demonic itself, and Eredun--but thus far he'd only managed brief moments here and there between his duties, and so he was far from fluent. He wondered idly what the term meant, and made note to ask Illidan, who _was_ fluent. 

The thought of sharing his master's bath instantly improved his mood, too.

"I'll join him, then. Thank you, Sister," Kael replied, addressing her with the respect due her station. He would have lied had he claimed to not be unnerved by the faith the demons shared, but they were still allies, and he would honor them as such, no matter how it may have ruffled his sensibilities--elven and Kirin Tor alike. He was once unnerved by the naga, after all, and none had proven more loyal to his people than they.

The doors opened, and the shivarra stood before him tall and muscular, smiling behind the ubiquitous veil. Her gauzy attire and ornamental armor left little to the imagination, in the typical manner of demons. It was not a displeasing sight to Kael, particularly not when she bowed with fluid grace before him, and he was treated to an eyeful of her glory. "This way, your highness," she beckoned him, and he dutifully followed her down the narrow, torch-lined corridor to the left of the entrance, still within the confines of the sprawling apartment.

"Forgive me, Sister, but I don't believe we've met," Kael said politely, with his eyes firmly fixed upon her shoulders. The sway of her hips was a distraction he could ill afford.

"Ah. I am Priestess Delrissa, my lord _desh'arat,_ " the shivarra replied. "I am Second to Her Dark Eminence the Mother Shahraz. Her ladyship granted me the privilege to attend my lord _xen'arat_ this evening--Lord Illidan. He asked me to fetch you."

Another unfamiliar term, and one clearly related to the first, Kael thought. Curiouser and curiouser. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sister. If Lord Illidan asked you to fetch me, then I suppose I should be fetching, shouldn't I?" he asked. It was soon enough he'd be expected to engage in light banter, and there was no time like the present to get into the proper mindset to entertain. Brooding hosts were dull ones.

For her part, Delrissa laughed softly behind her veil. "If I may be so bold, your highness, I do not believe that will prove difficult for you," she said.

Kael smiled. "Let us hope, Sister, for the sake of our guests."

Around the bend, the corridor ended at last in a set of double doors no less massive than the entrance to Illidan's apartments--black basalt doors, carved with vivid scenes of vice and licentious depravity not unlike those on the tapestries that hung within the Den of Mortal Delights. 

Kael examined the reliefs in curiosity as he waited patiently for Delrissa to gain entry. He was rather certain those doors were installed _after_ the draenei were driven from this place, knowing what he did of Akama's people.

A moment or two after she knocked, the doors opened, and Kael's eyes were torn away from the carving of satyrs rutting he'd been staring at in bemused wonderment, to gaze upon something he found far more captivating.

Kael had never seen Illidan's private baths before, and he was truly awed. It was not something easily accomplished, not for a prince born amidst the height of quel'dorei splendor who came of age within the luxurious salons of the Kirin Tor elite in all their violet and gold finery. But this place managed it nonetheless. It was a cavernous hall, with floors of black marble, and an enormous pool reflecting an exquisite domed ceiling. Tall pillars of the same dark violet-hued basalt as the walls lined the pool, torches burned in wrought-iron sconces, massive braziers fed warmth into the hall, and earthy, musky incense billowed from censers in the alcoves.

Kael almost wanted to weep. After two years of scarcity eking out a spartan existence at the sufferance of Grand Marshal Garithos, and months spent carefully managing scarce resources to turn the Black Temple into a base worthy of its new master, such unabashed luxury seemed a paradise to Kael, in all its dark splendor. Truly, dark though it was, it held an undeniable allure. 

Much like its lord and master, who sat sunk to the waist within still waters wafting steam about his tattooed body. Kael could not tear his eyes from Illidan; he scarce noticed the shivarra Delrissa offering her sweeping, graceful bow to the master of the Black Temple.

"So good of you to join me, _dalah'surfal,_ " Illidan practically purred, as he was doted on by a second shivarra who polished his massive horns with wax as he lounged in the water. "Mother Shahraz sent you a gift," he added, with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

Kael followed the direction Illidan gestured in, turning to his right. There a slender demon knelt upon a tasseled silk cushion on the floor, with a bowed head of thick black hair crowned by diminutive ram's horns, and delicate hands folded upon their lap. Curiously, they were no manner of demon Kael had seen before in the temple, and resembled a sin'dorei more than anything in build and carriage. If they had not been so submissive in demeanor, Kael would have been reminded oddly of the succubi; though the demon was wingless, they shared the same manner of pale violet skin of a succubus, nearly alabaster in hue, and wore little more than a long loincloth of black silk and a dark, velvet collar. Their tail, long and thin, coiled between their small, narrow hooves.

Whatever species of demon they were, they were undeniably beautiful, with the same sinister edge of the succubi. Kael wondered if they were at all related. He wondered yet more what manner of gift Shahraz meant to give him, and why; when his eyes trailed to the collar about their neck, he was reminded rather uncomfortably of another--one of gold, that Vashj wore, and the degradations it signified. The customs of demons were still so strange and off-putting to him in so many ways, but he would have to tread lightly. Shahraz was their undisputed leader in the temple, and refusing such a gift--no matter how distasteful he might have found the notion of a sentient being treated as chattel for barter--might be viewed poorly. As always, there was politics to consider.

Kael swallowed down his unease, and reached down to the inhumanly beautiful creature with an outstretched hand. "How shall I call you, demon?"

"Speak, sayaad," Delrissa barked.

The demon did not flinch under her commanding tone, but their long eyelashes fluttered ever so subtly in suppressed pleasure. "I am Valas, my lord _desh'arat_ , and I am called 'he'," he said, with a melodic voice thick with carnal sensuality. It was like velvet caressing Kael's ears. "I live to serve," he added.

There went that name again--or title, as Kael began to suspect it was. He also suspected this "gift" may have somewhat to do with it. A princely one, at that.

"I would have you look at me when you speak, Valas," Kael said. "Absolute submission is not something I require of those in my service."

"Yes, my lord." Valas raised his head only slightly, enough that he opened his resplendent fel green eyes; now Kael could take the measure of them, along with his face. Valas' eyes were inhumanly beautiful, just as the rest of him. His features were sharp and angular, and he had a mouth made for sin; with a rueful, silent chuckle, Kael rather regretted his hasty proclamation that absolute submission was not something he required.

Almost subconsciously, he glanced sidelong at Illidan then. His master was content to merely observe the exchange in idle curiosity, but Kael noted the deep violet flush to his glistening skin, the faint smile at the corner of his mouth, and the way he drew a single languid finger along the edge of the water, his talon dipping beneath the dark surface.

Things had certainly become a whole lot more interesting in the Black Temple, Kael thought with another silent chuckle.

He turned his attention back to the demon, still patient and yielding. "I've never seen anyone quite like you in my time here. Forgive me for being crass, but I must ask: what manner of demon are you?" Kael asked.

"There is nothing to forgive, my lord," Valas said graciously, with an incline of his head. "I am an incubus of the sayaadim--we are the male counterparts to our mistresses the succubi, of the same kith and blood. My lady the Mother Shahraz has released me from the Den of Mortal Delights to serve you, and chose this night that I might attend your bath. It is my honor, your highness."

"Truly?" Kael said, raising his brows in curiosity. "I did not realize the succubi had kin, and I've not seen your like here at the temple, that I can recall."

"Incubi rarely leave their homeworld, my lord _desh'arat,_ " Delrissa explained. "They are largely domestics and serve as companions."

Valas nodded. "My lady Delrissa is correct, your highness. What magics we possess can be used in defense, to ensnare the mind and the heart, but our sisters fight better than we do. Unlike them, we are no warriors by nature. Mortal warlocks would have but one use for us in the main, and most incubi cannot be bound, for we are already bound to our sisters. So we remain upon our distant world, keeping hearth and home for their return, and rarely answer the summons of mortals. My brethren are few in number among the Illidari, and we all serve within the Den."

Demonology was something Kael pointedly left to Illidan, so it came as news to him that demons could bind one another just as warlocks bound them. "You can only be bound to one master, then?" he asked curiously.

"Yes, my lord," Valas replied. "As with all demons." 

"Valas, I am no warlock, despite my occasional manipulation of fel energy. I am a mage, and I cannot countenance the magical binding of a sentient being as my slave, nor could I accept a servant as I would a bauble, no matter who might wish to 'gift' me one. If you wish to serve me, let it be of your own will and without fel compulsion or contracts, and trust yourself into my keeping," Kael said solemnly.

"It is my will, my lord, I assure you," Valas said with a quiet firmness, which came rather as a surprise to Kael, given his yielding nature. "Mother Shahraz did not order it so--I asked it of her. I wish to serve you, Prince Kael'thas. It _was_ my choice."

"Very well, Valas. I thank you for it, and I shall strive to be worthy of your trust," Kael said, with a reassuring smile.

Across the chamber came a light, meaningful cough. "The night grows long, my _thero'shan,_ " Illidan said in amusement, raising his brows as he did. "We have a fete to attend, remember."

Kael laughed softly. "Yes, of course, master. Dear Valas, I believe you mentioned something about attending my bath?"

"Yes, my lord _desh'arat,_ " Valas said. He glanced at Delrissa, who nodded crisply at him in return, and herself sauntered across the room to attend to Illidan as per her own duties that night.

When the incubus rose from the marble floor, to Kael's surprise the demon stood nearly at his own height. Valas carried himself with an inhuman grace as he bowed, and disrobed Kael with the deft, practiced hand of a courtesan, making quick work of the laces and hooks of his light summer robes--much more so than Illidan ever did, and the thought of how his beloved struggled so with the intricate lacing on his heavy mantle before their first tryst made Kael smile with nostalgia. He glanced across the pool at Illidan.

Illidan's emerald gaze was fixed intently upon them; he was entirely oblivious to the multitude of lithe hands working herbal soaps into a lather on his skin, pampering him to the last sodden inch. 

Kael could barely twist his arm just so to allow it through his sleeve, so distracted he was by the sight of it. He managed nonetheless, and smiled when Valas demurely lowered his eyes, with a quick bite of his lip as he knelt before him to unlace his boots. The sight of him on his knees before Kael was by no means unpleasant, either.

There were tiered steps leading into the pool, and Kael descended them with infinite grace, sinking down to rest upon one so that he was submerged to his shoulders, far deeper than Illidan. The water was deceptively warm, like as not heated by some hidden hypocaust, as Kael sensed no trace of mana within it. But it was not too hot as to be unpleasant, and the gentle heat bloomed the musky scent of the herbs and oils to a heady mix with the incense. 

Kael leaned back, luxuriating with deep breaths, and soon felt the dull throbbing in his temple melting away. Valas knelt before him at the pool's edge, bearing various accoutrements with which to pamper him, as Delrissa and her shivarran sisters did to his master.

"You're awfully far away, Kael," Illidan teased him. "Why don't you come closer?"

To say Kael was tempted would be an unbelievable understatement. The sight of half-clad demons stroking Illidan's tattooed skin clean...his long, shaggy mane of midnight black hair wet and splayed out in their hands...his muscles glistening with the remnants of cleansing oils...it was utterly captivating.

But there was business to consider, and Kael could not afford to lose focus. For all the politics of the personal he would engage in that night, it was the politics of statecraft that must be his primary concern. Losing himself to hedonism would do none of them any favors.

Valas' soothing hands did absolutely nothing to aid Kael in this cause, either. They were smooth and warm; Valas's touch was like the caress of a lover , and combined with the sight of Illidan, this set all manner of blood racing to Kael's lower regions.

"I fear that if I do come closer, master, we may never leave this place," Kael replied wryly, with a faint grimace.

"I see very little downside to such a notion," Illidan snickered. Then his chest heaved with a great, contented sigh, and Kael tried desperately to ignore the rivulets of water trickling down Illidan's black nipples. "It's been so long since I've simply been able to relax this way. Not since..."

Illidan's words trailed off into another bliss-filled sigh, which also did nothing for Kael's resolve to keep focused on his duties that evening. Illidan tilted his head back, his full lips half open in unabashed pleasure, as Delrissa worked no less than three obsidian combs through his thick mane simultaneously. For as long as Kael had known Illidan, his hair had always been a bit disheveled; truly, the man himself was always a bit disheveled in general, and it was a part of his at times rugged charm for Kael. But there were many times Kael wondered to himself just how much more alluring his roguish lover might be if those gloriously wild locks were tamed, his beauty polished, and it was perhaps his ulterior motive in all this. And perhaps, too, Kael simply wished for him to be pampered; after all the years of brutal confinement he'd suffered, Illidan deserved such comfort and care.

A sudden pang of longing struck Kael as he watched Delrissa at work. It brought to mind the night in the grotto with Vashj, and her tales of caring for Illidan so long ago during his convalescence in Zin-Azshari--along with what often occurred in the bath, forbidden though it was to her. Kael wondered if that was what Illidan was alluding to, if he had remembered those stolen moments of succor and pleasure after all this time. 

Kael's fevered imagination seized hold of the image in a vice grip. It was too easy to think of a multitude of shivarran hands as naga ones instead, slender and blue and slick with oil, slipping down beneath the water's surface one by one...

Kael shifted on the stair within the pool, straining against the marble.

Valas, curse him, must have sensed his ever-heightening state of arousal. The incubus leaned down then, his sultry lips hovering mere fractions above Kael's ear, his warm breath dancing along the slender point. "Is my lord _desh'arat_ pleased with my attendance?" he asked, lightly trailing a tiny, kitten-like claw down Kael's chest.

"Altogether too much," Kael murmured under his breath.

"Does my lord require somewhat else of me?" Valas asked sweetly.

Kael shut his eyes, breathing deeply, willing his blood to cool and his pulse to slow, to no avail. "No, Valas. Thank you, but no," he replied firmly, not trusting himself to open his eyes until he felt Valas draw back.

Indeed, the incubus dutifully withdrew without further incident, and while his hands were hardly devoid of sensuality--Kael believed that might well have been impossible for him--his attendance upon his lord remained chaste thereafter. As Kael relaxed in the water, and Valas massaged soap into his hair, he turned his mind to politics--namely, the briefing Capernian gave him that morning on the Nexus-Prince Haramad. He thought upon the advice she supplied regarding what the sin'dorei knew of ethereal protocol and history, the better to prepare him for any potential negotiations. That subject was safe enough to temper his blood. 

Kael only expected to plant the seed of alliance that night; this could be a delicate process, and one not wise to rush. A show of too much eagerness would be a sign of desperation on the part of the Illidari, and that never boded well for favorable terms. He thought of the dossier prepared by Rommath on the Consortium's reclusive leader. 

According to the report, the Nexus-Prince virtually never ventured forth to functions in person, always utilizing trusted surrogates to make connections on his behalf. That he was willing to do so this night was quite curious to Kael. Perhaps this was an indicator of how valuable this potential alliance was to the Consortium. It might well be that Haramad needed Illidan much more than the reverse, and Kael found that notion fascinating--and troublesome. 

Did the ethereals face some mounting threat of their own besides the Legion? 

This was something Kael believed he would do well to bear in mind throughout the evening's festivities, and he resolved to do so. All his people were under orders to work the ethereals for as much information as possible, although Kael was privately rather dubious on how well it would succeed. This was an urbane and sophisticated group of traders, and he rather doubted they would give up much in the way of anything without the promise of compensation. Information was power, after all, and more valuable than gold in a war-torn world.

Kael's musings were suddenly, maddeningly, and quite thoroughly interrupted by a stirring across the pool. 

Illidan emerged from the water, glistening and dripping wet from every inch of his chiseled form; as he ascended the steps into the waiting myriad arms of his shivarran attendants bearing fresh linen towels. He paused just before the top, resting a single hoof on the edge of the pool, with his knee bent just so, almost as if to perfectly display his powerfully muscled thigh--and it was abundantly clear then to Kael that he hadn't been the only one coping with arousal. 

The sight of Illidan standing there, rubbed down by shivarran like some wanton statue of a demonic god of vice, brought to mind the licentious fresco carved into the doors to the baths, and it was nearly enough to make Kael's heart stop.

" _Anar'alah belore,_ " he breathed quietly, his mouth suddenly quite dry. The worst part was the way Illidan seemed entirely nonchalant about it, oblivious to Kael. 

"My lord?" Valas stirred him, smiling. "It is your turn."

Kael reluctantly pulled his eyes away from his beloved and exited the pool himself, permitting Valas to dry him, slowly running the soft linens across his arms and chest, down his legs. It was particularly maddening when the incubus knelt before him, gazing up longingly at him, but Kael breathed deeply and managed to calm himself once more. 

He was adamant as he thought on what his father had always taught him: a prince must be steel within silk. Discipline was paramount. He could not be Kael that night, the young voluptuary seeking libertine pleasures behind the closed doors of his estate in Dalaran. He was called this night to be Prince Kael'thas Sunstrider, lord of the blood elves, right hand to the Lord of Outland, and that was what he must be.

Thwarted once more, but seeming to enjoy the challenge, Valas led Kael to one of the niches along the edge of the bathing pool. Illidan already lay stretched out on his stomach upon a cushioned bench, with Delrissa at work massaging him, kneading his wings with one pair of hands while another rocked her knuckles across his back muscles. It looked unbelievably relaxing, and Kael was more than a little envious.

He was guided then by Valas to another bench beside Illidan's, and Kael stretched out alongside him. As he did so, he deftly brushed his wealth of blonde hair aside, draping it in a damp, thick cable away from his back, while Valas retrieved a tray full of massage accoutrements and set to work.

"How will my lord take his pleasure?" Valas purred.

"With modesty, please," Kael insisted. The incubus was nothing if not dogged, Kael gave him that much.

"Yes, my lord," Valas replied. He folded a fresh linen cloth, draping it across Kael's backside, and poured a small vial of scented oil into his hands, before echoing Delrissa's movements, though he only had two hands and Kael possessed no wings. 

Kael's request mattered little; Valas' touch was undeniably sensual nonetheless, and Kael wondered again if it was some essential quality of an incubus. Valas spread smooth and agile hands down his back, deftly working out a myriad of small knots Kael did not even realize he had. He focused on that feeling of loosening muscles and melting tension and rested his cheek upon his folded arms, gazing through the dim torchlight and threads of billowing incense smoke at Illidan. The Lord of Outland lay face-down, rumbling in contentment.

Kael smiled, to see him at such ease again. If anyone deserved this manner of indulgence, Kael thought again, it was Illidan. 

Once more, his thoughts turned to Vashj's tales of how she offered comfort and succor to Illidan so long ago, though this time it was not the titillating thoughts that stirred him; rather, it was Illidan's aborted recollection in the pool. Kael's curiosity about just how much Illidan remembered was decidedly piqued...but these were more of Vashj's dangerous waters to tread. Kael meant to tread them lightly, for both of their sakes; he would not betray her confidence.

"Illidan?" he asked softly.

"Yes, love?" Illidan murmured, his soft rumbling voice thick with bliss at Delrissa's fingers moving in firm little swirls along his neck.

"What did you mean to say earlier, in the pool? When you said it had been so long since you'd last been attended as such?" Kael asked gingerly.

That earned him a contented sigh of unabashed pleasure, which Kael suspected was as much about Delrissa's present touch as the memory. "Ah, well. It's an old memory from my youth, perhaps stirred by the senses," Illidan answered. "I told you about my maiming, didn't I?"

"You did," Kael said, then paused as he felt a loud pop in his shoulder, and a pleasant tingling to follow. Valas was very, very good. Kael continued, "You feigned allegiance to Queen Azshara and the Legion, and Sargeras marked you with his power."

"The pain of that marking was immense, excruciating--like nothing I've ever experienced before or since, and I felt it across nearly every inch of my body. Everywhere Sargeras lay his brands, and the sockets where he shoved fel iron after he burned my eyes out. My memory of that time is...hazy. I spent much of it delirious or entirely unconscious. But one thing I have always remembered clearly, and it was the kindness of one of the Queen's handmaidens. She cared for me until I was fit enough to carry out the mission Sargeras assigned me, to retrieve a particular artifact--one I meant to claim for the Resistance," Illidan explained. 

Kael noted the odd, ritualistic gestures Delrissa made--the gestures all shivarran made when Illidan spoke the Dark Titan's name: pressing one particular left hand to their hearts and veiled lips. Before anything, they were priestesses, and thinking of the object of their devotion made Kael's blood run cold.

Kael paused before he spoke again, thinking very carefully about the words he would use. "Who was she? The handmaiden, that is."

Illidan sighed deeply. "I don't know. I wouldn't have recognized her face even had I been able to see it conventionally, and she never told me her name. Azshara was notorious for keeping her handmaidens on a tight leash. Pain has a strange way of sharpening one's senses, though. It's difficult to explain to one who has never experienced such torment."

Delrissa politely nudged Illidan then, and he rose and turned over onto his back. There was no towel protecting his modesty as with Kael, and thus the motion was immensely distracting.

"I won't press you if it's an unpleasant subject, love," Kael said, his eyes helplessly tracing the muscled curve of Illidan's backside as he did, "but I admit I am curious as to what you mean."

"It's as though time itself ceases for everything but the particular moment. In my agony, the most trivial details became seared into my memory, like the scent of her perfume--it was black lotus and twilight rose, night blooming flowers. And her touch was like nothing else, even when she was merely changing my bandages. I even remember the gentle way her thumb brushed the wine from my chin when it spilled. But it was her ministrations upon my body that I have always remembered most keenly," Illidan said. 

He shut his eyes, rumbling a muted sound of pleasure. Whether it was from the memory, or Delrissa, Kael could not say; he suspected it was a mixture of the two.

"You must understand, Kael. I felt a stranger in my own body when I was branded, as though my skin were not my own. But when she took me in hand, I knew pleasure like nothing else, and I felt as if she were rooting me back into myself. Pain is transcendent, but release is grounding. The Highborne had a peculiar euphemism for it--they called it the little death. I died a thousand of them in that bath chamber, and still I wanted more. I only wish I could have repaid her in kind, but it was a dangerous game we played. She gave me what she could, and I cherished it, knowing even that much was anathema for her as the queen's concubine."

Kael swallowed hard, willing the vivid imagery in his mind to cease: Illidan not as a winged half-demon, but a virile kaldorei youth, moaning with pleasure. Vashj, not as a naga Priestess of the Tides, but a Highborne maiden so beautiful her vainglorious queen had claimed her as the jewel in her crown. A silent, stolen moment of erotic rebellion shared between secret lovers: his head thrown back in ecstasy, her hands an instrument of wanton, forbidden desire until pain became naught but pleasure.

It was a beautiful thought, the stuff of verse, and one that stirred Kael like little else in his life ever had. They were creatures of passion, Vashj and Illidan; perhaps that was why he was so drawn to them as the proverbial moth to flame. Vashj hid hers behind a carefully constructed mask, but Illidan was ruled by his, occasionally to his own detriment. 

And somewhere, between these two extremes, there was Kael: the dutiful prince who played the part of the loyal general and strong, commanding leader by day, and by night reveled in the hedonistic pleasures of the flesh, his darkest desires stirred and sated by a man he so eagerly called "Master". So alike they were, the three of them, yet unique in their own particular ways. 

Kael could not help but wonder how ten-thousand years of repressed desire might manifest itself at last, were Vashj loosed from fear and bonds of terrible oaths. He wondered if it would be anything like the way she returned his kiss in the grotto, boiling over like churning seas--or if that was only a fraction. After all, she had loved Kael, had wanted him, for far shorter a time than she had Illidan. How quickly would that mask crumble, were it Illidan's hands upon her?

Kael wished Vashj were there, in the baths with them. Desperately so.

"What of your spectral vision? How did she appear to you?" Kael asked his master, swallowing down his longing to concentrate on the delicate task at hand.

"It was unsettling, at first," Illidan admitted. "But once I realized that I was not truly blind, that I had been given a different kind of sight in exchange for having mundane vision taken from me, it became easier to bear. I remember testing its limits, examining every detail of every aura I saw. And that handmaiden...I'm no poet, Kael. I don't possess a tenth of your eloquence, and I'd need it to describe her sight to my eyes. I was enthralled by it. It was like gazing at the Well itself, only in miniature. She fair rippled with power and quiet grace. Truly, she was everything Azshara in her all her cloying and tawdry falsehoods only feigned to be, and she had no conception of it at all. I recall wondering why in the world she was content to be a mere handmaiden."

"And you have no idea at all who she was? Do you think she may be among the tribes who aid us?" Kael pressed delicately.

"None, I'm afraid. But I'm no fool, Kael--at least, not in this," Illidan began in a wry tone, "and I know your mind too well now to miss your meaning here. Yes, I admit there are times when I indulge the possibility that my mystery attendant may have been Vashj, but I tell you, it's pure foolishness. What are the odds of such a thing, that we would be reunited after so long, after having shared such moments, fleeting and stolen as they were? I only knew Vashj in passing in those days, and Azshara would never have permitted her most cherished pet to dote on me the way that girl did, no matter how strange her fascination with me. Her majesty the 'Light of Lights' was too vain and insecure, her jealousy would never have permitted it."

Kael remained silent, turning over at Valas' request, laying flat on his back as the incubus dripped warm oil onto his chest. There was an even greater temptation than the carnal which seized him at that particular moment. 

It would have been such a simple thing to confirm Illidan's suspicion, to tell him precisely who this mysterious handmaiden was. 

It would have been simple, and felt so satisfying, to say that Vashj loved Illidan beyond description and still did even after so many long centuries apart, and that she had cherished those fleeting moments of stolen pleasure as much as he did, because he had been the secret desire of her heart since their youth. It would have been so easy to tell Illidan that all he would have to do is crook a single taloned finger and she would be his, the way Kael was.

And Vashj would never forgive Kael for it.

"I'm sure you're right, love," Kael concurred at last, though he would not add anything to clarify what precisely he was in agreement with. It was pure sophistry, and he knew it, but it meant he did not technically lie to Illidan, nor betray Vashj's confidence. For both their sakes--for all their sakes, truly--it would be better if Illidan came to the truth of his own accord. No matter how slow and agonizing it might be for Kael to watch him fumble for it the dark, and watch Vashj suffer under the weight of her burden. If sophistry were required, so be it, Kael thought.

At any rate, mages were the kings of sophistry, and princes the emperors. Let Illidan believe what he would.

Illidan was fair melting into Delrissa's touch, making those delightful _basso-profundo_ sounds that so enthralled Kael. When he spoke again moments later, his voice was tender enough to make Kael's heart ache for him, as it had so often. "All I know is that in the darkest moments of my imprisonment, the memory of that girl's kindness was sometimes the only thing that kept me from wishing for death. And I mean the care as much as the pleasure. Maiev's cruelty made it simple to believe nothing like kindness existed in the world. That memory was a reminder that it did, and that I had known it once, even if only in a mad palace an eon ago. It meant as much to me as Tyrande did. I wish I could have repaid it."

"You may still get the chance--" Kael began somewhat cautiously, but his words were stolen by the sensation of Valas' fingers brushing across his sensitive nipples, hardening them to the touch as he massaged Kael's pectorals, and his breath hitched in his throat. It seemed that incubi were their own special kind of torment, Kael thought with no small amount of wry self-deprecation, as much as their lash-wielding sisters. 

It had been far easier, when he was focused on teasing out Illidan's memory, for him to forget about Valas' hands on him. Not so much now that Illidan was beside him, nude and glistening and hard as stone, making sounds he normally only made in the throes of passion with Kael. He entertained wicked thoughts of reaching over and stroking him to completion, and he grew that much stiffer himself beneath the towel.

Kael felt truly hopeless that night.

"Does my lord require release?" Valas asked. There was a faint hint of pleading to his casual and pleasant tone, and Kael felt a slight tremor in the incubus' otherwise graceful hands when they teased at the edges of the towel, his oil-slick fingers dipping under the fabric to stroke at Kael's thighs. It sent gooseflesh rising on his skin, and once more he was sorely tempted to accept what was so clearly--brazenly--being offered. Light knew, he was tempted; he clenched his cheeks tightly, willing his taut body to remain still, to not rise up in search of the friction it so desperately wanted.

Once more, however, Kael denied his own yearning, choosing to bury it for the sake of necessity and propriety. He would not take advantage of this beautiful creature, no matter what his body demanded. He could not. 

And he certainly would not fly across the room, take Illidan into his embrace, and let nature and this overwhelming desire take its course. He was a prince, and he had work to do, and it would be terribly improper besides.

Pleasant, but improper.

"No," Kael hissed through grit teeth. He thought of Illidan at his meditations, and shut his eyes again with deep breaths, trying to find some measure of stillness.

"Very well, my lord," Valas said, and held up a robe of pale red silk. "One of Lady Penelope's apprentices delivered your garments earlier. They await in your chambers."

"Illidan?" Kael rose a questioning eyebrow. His lover had already risen from his table, and slipped into his towel.

"I'll meet you at the Grand Promenade," Illidan said.

"Then let me make ready. I've dallied enough this evening," Kael said. He sat up and swung his legs down to the ground in a fluid motion, wrapping himself in the proffered robe, and made for the exit, but Valas beckoned him toward a cul-de-sac nearby, and a hidden corridor that led directly to his personal quarters. Kael had spent little time within them since moving into Illidan's sprawling apartments, but it still surprised him that they were connected to the baths. It was another reminder of how massive the Black Temple was, and how many secrets it held.

He saw the final garment draped upon a silk screen beside his vanity, but waited patiently on the stool for his erstwhile attendant. Valas retrieved a mirrored tray with a number of cosmetics and grooming implements and set to work quickly and efficiently--with none of the teasing sensuality he exhibited in the bath, but with every bit of the grace. 

The incubus hummed softly to himself as he brushed Kael's hair back, deftly twirled a length of thread to trim his long and feathery eyebrows before applying a pomade to smooth them, and trimmed and buffed his fingernails to a shine. Pleasant though it was, Kael would not permit himself to enjoy the pampering too much, fearing it would quicken his blood; instead, he thought of what Illidan might look like, as he prepared separately in their shared chambers. 

Amelia and Penelope were adamant in their refusal to let Kael see his lover's finished garment, insisting that Illidan forbade it, and that Illidan alone attend the fittings. So Kael had not seen the design since that initial meeting, when it was a mere sketch on a sheet of vellum, and he suspected it was why they were making ready separately. Illidan had something of a flair for melodrama, and likely wanted to make some grand entrance to surprise him. The thought made Kael chuckle with affection.

His own ensemble was suitably exquisite, and Valas helped him into it with little effort, once he was suitably groomed to perfection. It was a long, sleeveless mantle of magnificent imbued netherweave dyed true to Amelia's word in that deep shade of al'arine crimson, with intricately embroidered accents of gold: thick stripes along the collar and hemlines meant to evoke a sunburst, and thinner, spiraling designs along the sides, a motif of stylized phoenix feathers. 

Kael first pulled on the matching jodhpurs, snug and tailored exquisitely from the same material, but when he slipped his arms into the mantle, he marveled at how uncommonly soft the fabric was as he stroked the crimson panels. It felt like velvet to the touch, though far lighter, and it flowed like silk. Though tapered at the waist, it flared out as it reached the floor, and as he turned just so, it rippled, faintly smoldering embers within the weave rippling in the light of the candelabras, like waves of heat in the summer sun.

Truly, the couturiers had outdone themselves. Kael understood then just why Amelia's services were so sought after.

Amelia and Penelope argued a great deal over it--bickering much like a married couple--but in the end, it was decided there would be no shirt worn beneath the mantle, leaving Kael's smooth chest completely bare, but for the tiny domes of golden thread dotting the upper edges of the garment that may have been mistaken for buttons. About his wrists he slid cuffs to match, and though they were thick with that same golden phoenix embroidery, they were just as light and comfortable.

At last, Valas presented him with a small box and Kael began to retrieve his jewelry from it, piece by piece. A pair of of shimmering star ruby teardrops encased in gold he clipped to his ears; they dangled merrily, catching the candlelight as he turned his head. He clasped a matching pendant around his neck, a fine chain of gold with an enormous star ruby carved into a phoenix; they'd been gifts from Rommath what seemed an age ago, when he was first inducted into the Kirin Tor, and he chose them quite deliberately that night, to honor the love of his childhood. The signet ring of House Sunstrider with its gilded phoenix-and-sun crest was last; his ring, and not his father's. The latter rested within a case buried in a drawer, and Kael would not wear it until he was crowned king. He remained adamant in the belief that he would not be worthy of it until Quel'Thalas was restored in Outland.

In contrast to the subtle intricacy of his garments, he would leave his hair simple. Valas simply brushed it a final time, working an earthy oil of sandalwood and attar of mageroyal through his thick locks, before crowning it with a modest coronet in the shape of delicate golden laurel leaves. The incubus then put the final touches on his face, artfully applying kajal to thinly rim Kael's gleaming emerald eyes in black, dabbing just a touch of red ochre at the high points of his cheeks, and the center of his lips.

For a moment, as he gazed at his reflection within the floor length mirror, Kael feared he may have been seen as vulgar, with so much skin exposed, and the cosmetics. In the Quel'Thalas of old it absolutely would have been vulgar, derided as the province of courtesans--who were scarcely tolerated, if not despised--and not suitable for the royal heir. In Dalaran, with its slightly more liberal mores, it would perhaps have been merely a tad scandalous, but still questionable for a mage of Kael's stature, one who was also a high prince and heir to a rather staid kingdom. 

However, Kael reminded himself that this was neither the Quel'Thalas of old, nor was it Dalaran. This was Outland, and specifically the Black Temple, a fortress which held at its heart a brothel that served as a sanctuary for courtesan and patron alike without shame. His people were no longer quel'dorei clutching their pearls and fretting over saving face--they were sin'dorei, who seized both vengeance and life where they would in equal measure, and cared nothing for the judgement of others.

So he permitted himself the vanity of enjoying fine, new clothing for what seemed like the first time in forever, and not merely making do with whatever had been salvaged. Kael looked every inch the shining prince, and felt something like himself again, the way he did in Dalaran before every fete, filled with anticipation at the notion of turning every head in the room. It was silly, perhaps, but he felt he was permitted as much, after all he had been through.

His gilded slippers of soft clefthoof leather sat neatly by the door; Kael slid them on at last, and resolved to find Illidan that they might make their grand entrance to the fete. Kael was fair tittering at the prospect of presenting himself at last to his beloved in all his exquisitely attired sin'dorei glory. 

With Valas content to play valet, Kael swept through the door and made way to find the Lord of Outland; he found him at the entrance to the Grand Promenade, flanked by shivarran, though Delrissa was not among them.

Illidan was a vision of dark, majestic splendor, standing there before the massive doors. The design Amelia crafted for him was nothing less than breathtaking in its final form: an open, sleeveless mantle of imbued netherweave dyed what appeared at first glance to be a midnight black, but in truth was deepest eggplant violet, draped over his shoulders to fall to the floor. It was ingeniously clasped at the shoulders by gilded khorium fashioned in the shape of orbs, like as not a matter of practical concession to his wings, and it was belted at the waist by a thick _obi,_ far finer than his customary one, crafted of black clefthoof leather trimmed with the softest talbuk hair and embroidered in patterns to echo his spiraling fel markings. Beneath the long mantle, he wore only dark _hakama_ pants of the same imbued netherweave in the kaldorei style, flared wide, with the hem settling just above his hooves. Like Kael, Illidan wore no shirt beneath his upper garment, exposing the gracefully sinister emerald brands burned into his glistening, muscled flesh, rippling with fel power. A simple gold pendant hung around his neck to rest upon his chest--a pair of crescents fused together, calling to mind any number of things: his horns, his glaives...even the twin moons of Azeroth, symbols of Elune. 

Truly, the ensemble was a fitting reflection of Illidan himself, neither kaldorei in its entirety nor wholly demonic, but a darkly harmonious blend of the two that became somewhat more than the sum of its seemingly disparate parts--just as the couturiers planned it.

Illidan's massive horns had been waxed and polished to a shine, adorned with finely hewn chains of gold filigree; his hooves were newly shod with thick shoes of gilded khorium, gleaming violet and gold. His hair had been brushed and oiled to a blue-black sheen, artfully draped in front of his shoulders, cascading down his back to fall to his waist. Tied about his eyes was the same blindfold he always wore, though it had been cleaned and pressed like new, and Kael could at last see just how fine the fabric was; not the solid black scrap he'd believed it to be, but a dark cambric runecloth with fine golden embroidery he'd never noticed before, worn as it was. 

Altogether, Illidan's strange and otherworldly beauty was polished in a manner Kael had never seen in all the time he'd served him. It was true that he'd always found the demon hunter handsome--as an understatement--but Illidan seemed to care little for his own appearance. It was a rough hewn sort of beauty he possessed, careless and worn. Illidan's had always been an outlaw's allure, wild and untamed. At that moment, however, it had become like jet pressed to diamond, and for once Illidan appeared no rogue demon, but every inch the dark sovereign.

It took Kael's breath away, and he realized then with no small amount of embarrassment that he'd been gaping at his beloved like some awestruck peasant. He closed his mouth and drew himself to full height, shoulders back and head held high, remembering who he was: the dark sovereign's chosen consort, and natural born royalty in his own right.

" _Dalah'surfal,"_ Illidan murmured, reaching out to lightly caress Kael's cheek. Even his talons had been trimmed and buffed to a shine. "Do you find me pleasing to behold?" His tone was gently teasing, but Kael could still detect an underlying hunger there for his approval.

"I always do," Kael replied, smiling. He reached out to stroke a long lock of Illidan's hair, marveling at the silky black strands, soft and gleaming. "But particularly this night. You look magnificent, my love. The true Lord of Outland."

"Good," Illidan mumbled. His calloused hands drifted down Kael's bare shoulders, briefly stroking the fine netherweave. "I'm sure you're even more pleasing a sight, my sun prince."

Kael swallowed an unexpected pang of disappointment, both at the withdrawal of Illidan's hands, and the reminder that Illidan's vision made no distinction between such mundane sights as garments and baubles, only the magic that lay within him. In all his enthusiasm, he'd forgotten that Illidan would not be able to see his finery, such that it was.

He tried his best not to dwell on it, or reveal his disappointment when he spoke. "Thank you, master," Kael replied. "And please--allow Vashj and I to handle Haramad and the ethereals. Enjoy this bit of respite, I beg of you."

Illidan shrugged nonchalantly. "Of course. I trust your judgement and hers, as always. But I'll hold you to that as well, my _thero'shan._ Do not burden yourself overmuch playing the courtier for my sake. You've need of respite too."

"Very well," Kael said. It was at that moment that the brassy, hollow note of a gong sounded from beyond the doors, the signal he'd prearranged with Capernian. The appointed time for their entrance had come at last. "Shall we?"

Illidan's answer came with an outstretched hand; Kael clasped it tightly, mindful of the line his arm made, adjusting it to account for their considerable height difference. "I've not done this before, you realize," Illidan said, and Kael realized Illidan's hand was trembling slightly as it grasped his. While the thought had occurred to Kael, the notion that the Lord of Outland might be suffering a bout of nerves over it certainly had _not_ occurred to him. Kael suppressed the laugh bubbling up within him; he had no idea why he found it so adorable, but it was rather endearing.

"Just follow my lead," Kael said in his best reassuring tone, though not without a hint of mild teasing. Illidan's long, feathery brow quirked at it, and his lips spread into a smirk.

"Only in this, my _thero'shan_ ," Illidan purred, warm and sultry. Kael felt the sharp, sudden prick of a talon in his palm; not enough to draw blood, but enough to steal the breath from his throat and set his spine to tingling. He managed to find breath, to his credit, and drew in a deep one to settle himself.

"You're not helping," Kael muttered. Illidan rumbled.

Their banter was interrupted when the massive doors slowly opened before them, revealing the short set of stairs leading to the Grand Promenade. The innermost courtyard of the Black Temple with its long, winding path and terraces had been exquisitely decorated for the occasion. The stone had been thoroughly scrubbed, the exotic flora and topiaries carefully tended and artfully arranged, petals and votives floated amidst the fountains, and large, open pavilions erected upon the terraces, gaily decorated in gauzy, jewel-toned silks. The myriad banners of the diverse Illidari factions fluttered gently in the warm night breeze, deep jewel-toned shades of violet and green, indigo, gold and ruby, teal, sapphire blue, and silver. The fete had been underway for a short time already, and the guests engaged in light banter, as servants circulated graciously among them with trays laden with small morsels and crystalline glasses.

All of them fell absolutely silent at the sight of Kael and Illidan, emerged and standing in the doorway, the hush thick with awe and anticipation.

Kael raised their entwined hands, and together he and Illidan descended the steps one by one at a slow, stately pace. True to his word, Illidan did follow Kael's lead, holding fast at the foot of the short stair, tall and steady.

The voice of a shivarra herald announced them: "His Royal Highness, Prince Kael'thas Sunstrider, Lord of the Blood Elves! And His Dark Majesty, Illidan Stormrage, sovereign Lord of Outland!"


	13. To Offer Up the Night

Every knee present bent in reverence to Illidan. Including, Kael noted, those of the ethereals. Among them was one rather elaborately-garbed guest who surely could have been none other than Nexus-Prince Haramad, crowned by an enormous jeweled turban. 

And there—among the sin’dorei, kneeling with a most elegant courtier’s bow, was the guest of honor himself, his long black hair pulled back into a tight braid that slid gracefully over his shoulder as he bowed. Though he couldn’t see Rommath’s face, he would have recognized that particular bow anywhere. Kael held in his surprise at the colorful designs he saw newly painted around Rommath’s bare shoulders and slender biceps. He would definitely need to inquire about those.

Though the naga did not possess knees as such, they bowed with serpentine grace from their waists nonetheless, arms crossed before them. There was only one naga upon which Kael's mind was fixed, however, and his eyes searched the gathered naga for her; he spotted her at last flanked by hulking myrmidon bodyguards. All he could see was her exquisite face, her hair-serpents gathered into an elaborate, wriggling plait atop her head, but it was enough to make his heart skip a beat, and the familiar ache within it return, sharp and certain as it had been in the grotto. 

By all rights, Vashj should have been at their side—at Illidan’s side. Vashj was his ever-present and cunning left hand as Kael was his right. He had asked her to join them, more than once via intermediaries, but she had declined each time, and it still stung him. They stood only a short distance away from one another, but it felt to Kael like a gaping chasm. For a sudden, uncharacteristically impulsive moment, he felt the urge to throw away all his careful royal protocol, all the gentle breeding of his noble upbringing, and simply run to her. That irrational part of him longed to push through the throng, to throw himself into her multitude of arms, to beg her take her rightful place by their side, and in their hearts.

But then her gaze found his, and she smiled her enigmatic smile, and his knees melted. Kael was glad for the strength of Illidan’s grasp, and took comfort in it. He let his gaze fall over the hushed crowd, and smiled graciously in his most regal fashion; it was his mother’s manner he recalled then, oddly enough, and not that of his father.

“In Lord Illidan’s name, I bid you welcome, gentles all. Tonight we gather to honor Grand Magister Rommath Sunreaver’s service to the sin’dorei and to the Illidari—before he returns to Quel’Thalas to prepare our people for their long journey here, that they might dwell under the aegis of Lord Illidan’s protection. Let us renew old ties of friendship on this festive occasion, and forge new ones as well,” Kael proclaimed. He turned ever so slightly to glance sidelong at Illidan, and surreptitiously squeezed his hand with meaningful intent.

“Be welcome to the Black Temple, friends, allies, and new acquaintances,” Illidan echoed. He paused, a small, wry grin on his face. “And may the wine flow freely!”

Whatever tension there may have been dissipated with Illidan’s jest, with light laughter breaking out among the guests. They all rose to resume their conversation as Kael and Illidan made way to take their place of honor. 

The fete was held in classic Highborne style, with low couches spread among the pavilions for reclining; the largest of the pavilions, atop a dais, was reserved for Illidan and his chosen. The Promenade’s large gilded braziers had been polished to a gleaming shine, and transformed into censers, trailing thin, wispy strands of incense—a heady mix of spice and earthy resins that blended exquisitely with the scent of the enchanted night-blooming flowers of the courtyard. It filled Kael’s senses with warmth and hedonistic pleasure, and he savored it with deep breaths as he and Illidan traversed the Promenade to take their seats.

Three couches lay in a half-moon circle in the largest pavilion’s center; a fourth, smaller one at the foot of the dais was intended for Rommath, as the guest of honor. Illidan ducked beneath one of the twinkling lanterns hanging suspended by magic under the pavilion’s roof, and sat upon the large, center couch, leaning back with indolent grace against the emerald cushions. The music had begun by then, with a number of sin’dorei musicians plying lilting melodies from a myriad of strings, joined by demons bearing unusual percussive instruments. Kael reclined upon his own couch beside Illidan’s, plush and red; he allowed himself then to observe the guests at length, starting naturally with the sin’dorei.

Truly, his people were in their element in a way he had not seen since his return to Quel’Thalas. To a one they were garbed magnificently, most in daring ensembles of the now-familiar crimson, black and gold, though a number also chose garments wrought in the colors of their particular company, or the Illidari as a whole. They mingled freely with ethereal, naga, and demon alike, and also with one another, bearing little regard for old, forgotten rivalries. They partook of gilded hookahs with wicked laughter and flirtatious smiles, blowing sparkling rings of smoke around one another, lighting up the night sky in a way only they could.

It warmed Kael’s heart to see it. The flower of sin'dorei beauty bloomed beneath the shadowed skies of a strange and far-off world, radiant as jewels in the darkness. It had not been diminished by their suffering and seemingly endless struggle for survival. If anything, it had been sharpened to a fine edge in the harsh wilderness, as surely as Illidan once remarked of their will and their powers; honed like steel sheathed by finely-woven silk, and polished to a sheen in the truest expression of their noble values. 

Kael could have wept with joy at it, his heart swollen with pride. Were this one of his old gatherings at what had come to be known as the Sunlit Court in Dalaran, Jaina would have laughed at him for it. But Jaina was not an elf, and thus would not have understood what it meant to weep at beauty. Nor would she have understood what beauty meant to a people mired in sorrow after having nearly been destroyed by all the ugliness that festered in the hearts of mortals. This radiance, this tenacity, meant everything to Kael. His people yearned for the sun, but they still shone all the brighter in the dark. Though it was now with the emerald light of fel power, rather than the violet-blue of the arcane, they were beautiful all the same.

As he gazed out over the promenade, Kael spied the Lady Malande holding court within one of the smaller pavilions—a priestess with platinum hair and deep, tawny skin. Kael was quite familiar with her, as she was once betrothed to Rommath in an arrangement made by his late mother; to the Grand Magistrix Aelyndra, the continuation of their storied and powerful bloodline took precedence over her son's well-known—and, to her, vexing—proclivities. The Third War, however, put an end to the arrangement, as it had so many other things. Malande and Rommath bore it all in stride, though, and even teased one another on occasion about their near-marriage. Malande was charming and lovely, with a quick and dry wit. Kael believed Rommath could have done far worse, as face-saving marriages went. 

Beside Malande, with eyes only for her, stood Gathios, a tall and broad shouldered knight who doted upon her in the unmistakable manner of those deeply smitten. He proudly bore a multitude of scars upon his chiseled frame, and his open silk vest exposed them—a silk vest in the same midnight black as Malande’s tight sheath of a gown. Some of those scars appeared fresher than others, and had likely been earned in Northrend, or during one of the endless skirmishes for the valley. 

As he watched Gathios hang upon Malande's every word, Kael suddenly remembered Rommath's droll admiration of Lor'themar Theron's equally-chiseled physique, and laughed inwardly. Rommath would not have minded Gathios' presence in his marital bed overmuch, Kael thought to himself in amusement, so long as Malande was absent. He did love his finely-muscled warriors. 

Kael’s silent musing was interrupted briefly, then, by stirring from the couch beside his. “Where is Vashj?” Illidan murmured absently, and frowned. “You’re certain she said that she would come?”

“She’s present, love. I saw her when we entered,” Kael answered, searching the crowd. He could not find her just then, however.

“I’ve not seen her for weeks. Is she wroth with me?” Illidan asked, still frowning.

“I’m certain that’s not the case,” Kael replied, suppressing a sudden pang of guilt. He dared not reveal it was entirely the opposite which kept her away. 

Still, this distance between them had gone on long enough, if for no other reason than it would be noted and remarked upon before too long...if it hadn’t already. If Illidan noticed her absence from the Black Temple, then surely others there did as well. Perception was of the utmost import, and the appearance of dissension within the Illidari leadership—no matter the cause, or the truth—could bode ill for their plans and spell disaster for their unusual alliance. While Kael believed Vashj far too cunning to place her personal feelings ahead of political considerations, he still couldn’t be entirely certain. It may well have been that her oath to Queen Azshara trumped even politics.

“I’ll find her,” Kael promised. “I have to greet our guests, at any rate.” He glanced rather pointedly at Illidan, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Speaking of which, a certain amount of mingling is expected at these affairs, master.”

“And just what are you insinuating, Kael?” Illidan snorted, his own eyebrow raised.

“Only that the Lord of Outland should not be cowering within his pavilion,” Kael said, with a teasing smile.

“I am not nor do I have any intent to _cower_ , my impudent prince,” Illidan protested. “I’m merely…surveying my domain.”

“So you say.” Kael’s tone was deadpan, and betrayed no hint of mirth.

“I was attending Highborne fetes in Zin-Azshari before you were a glimmer in your forebears’ eyes,” Illidan said, bristling. He straightened a bit on his couch, primly smoothing out his silk mantle. “They found me captivating.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less, master,” Kael said, his eyes twinkling. “I’ll search for Vashj as I make my rounds.” With an impish incline of his head, he rose from his couch and took leave of his aloof paramour, descending the dais to do a bit of mingling himself.

It had been a long time since Kael turned every head in a room by virtue of his mere presence—the endless toil of war saw otherwise—but he did that evening in spades. Even in such a ravishing night garden as this, the Lord of the Blood Elves was the rarest and most exquisite flower of them all, statuesque and radiant.

The guest of honor, however, quite nearly matched him, and all other thoughts flew from Kael’s head at the sight of him, in full view at last.

Standing in the corner pavilion directly across from the dais with a slender flute of his chosen apéritif in hand, Rommath was an absolute vision of sensual beauty. If Kael had any concern over the appropriateness of his own attire, it paled in comparison to Rommath’s, which by any measure would have been deemed obscene in the Quel’Thalas of old. The Grand Magister was draped in an exquisite sleeveless chiton of light, airy crimson silk with intricate golden embroidery that left his freshly tattooed arms, a shoulder, and fully half his chest bare, exposing a dark nipple pierced through by a small gold hoop, to match the one on his left nostril and those dangling from his ears. The light, airy robe was belted at the waist by a thick golden cord, and the garment split as it reached his ankles, artfully exposing most of his slender leg, which was only covered by the thin black leather straps of his gilded sandals criss-crossing his shapely calves.

Rommath’s hair, by contrast with his daring attire, was pulled back in his customary high tail atop his head. Kael could see now that the tight braid was woven with threads of gold, like a long, gilded tassel. In sum, the effect made him appear rather like the decadent Highborne aristocrats of notorious virtue as portrayed in ancient reliefs and paintings, though noticeably leaner and tougher; two years of hard travel and fighting sanded away his softer edges. Kael had never seen him adorned as such, not even during the costumed masquerades during the heady days of their youth in Dalaran, and he briefly entertained wicked thoughts of pulling Rommath into the nearest secluded closet, the way he often had back then.

Then their eyes met through thin wisps of incense and smoke drifting from the water pipes, and Rommath’s gaze was smoldering; a silent challenge to him that made Kael forget even his perverse scheming.

“Rommath,” was about all he managed aloud, his eloquence virtually stolen from him.

“Prince Kael’thas.” Rommath greeted him with a polite incline of his head, sweeping into his courtier’s bow, spilling not a drop from his glass.

“You look absolutely ravishing, my dear magister,” Kael said, as he kissed him; one of friendly greeting, and not one of a lover. Alas, there was protocol to consider.

“I wanted to remind you of just what you’ll be deprived in my absence, my prince,” Rommath said, smirking like a self-satisfied feline. “Though I suppose one might call it petty.”

Kael laughed. “Petty? You? Perish the thought.”

“I’ve never pretended to be otherwise,” Rommath said a bit archly. His angular eyes softened as they drifted down Kael’s bare chest, coming to rest upon the ruby phoenix pendant. “...You’re wearing my present.”

“Yes,” Kael replied, smiling at him as he did. Rommath’s skin flushed pink, and he took a sip from his glass, glancing away. The pointed tips of his ears curled ever so slightly.

“It always suited you, but never quite like this,” Rommath remarked, his gaze still lowered. “You shame your very namesake sun, my prince. You always do.”

Kael’s smile grew brighter, and just a touch impish—only a touch, as his eyes smoldered. “Is your name not Sunreaver, Grand Magister?”

The compliment had the desired effect: Rommath’s blush grew deeper, his ears curled further, and he covered his embarrassment rather smoothly by taking a drink from his glass—long, and circumspect to any familiar with his personal quirks. Kael could not help but inwardly laugh. Always the arrogant magister to superficial eyes, Rommath was in truth hopelessly bashful and so easy for his prince to tweak. It was by far the most endearing quality Rommath possessed, in Kael’s estimation: the way he turned to an adolescent schoolboy at the slightest hint of flirtation.

“Flatterer,” Rommath scoffed, but only mildly; his emerald eyes were bright and affectionate.

“I only speak the truth,” Kael replied. “You know how beautiful you are, Rommath.”

“I still grow weak to hear you say it, my prince,” Rommath confessed.

“I know. That’s why I make sure to,” Kael said softly. He reached out for him then, brushing his fingertips over the colorful design along Rommath's shoulder, letting them glide briefly down his painted arm. It was a ruthlessly teasing gesture, of a surety, but Kael was still feeling impish. “When did you have these done?”

Rommath’s eyes narrowed in a dangerous glare, and it was all Kael could do not to laugh. It was cruel to tease him so, and Kael knew it, but he could not help the cheeky humor in which he found himself, and after being teased himself for so long by his incubus valet that evening, he felt it only fair that he not suffer by his lonesome.

Cruel, perhaps, but love often was.

“Upon my last sojourn to Quel’Thalas,” Rommath finally answered, after swallowing down his mild fit of pique, though he was still bright red. “One of Halduron’s scouts is a woman of no mean marquist’s skill, and plies her trade at Sun’s Reach between reconnaissance expeditions into the city. We’ve all had at least one done—Halduron, Lor’themar, and I. It’s become the latest fashion, these days.”

“They’re exquisite,” Kael said, no longer teasing him, but genuinely fascinated. His eyes traced arcane runes etched in hues of red and gold about Rommath’s biceps, but were particularly drawn to one marking upon his chest, shrouded nearly in its entirety by the gauzy fabric of Rommath’s chiton; only the hint of a golden wing was visible, and it piqued Kael’s curiosity.

“Would that we had the night to our lonesome,” Rommath murmured. “I would give you ample opportunity to examine them all—at length.”

“Alas, duty prevails,” Kael sighed rather melodramatically. “I’ve a merchant prince to beguile instead.”

Rommath gave him a rueful smile, before his dark brows furrowed into seriousness. “I’ll not keep you then. Haramad is witty and rather delightful, but have a care. The ease of his manner is such that it conceals a sharp and observant mind. Do not allow him to lull you into complacency or carelessness, and do not expect him to give anything up without a price. Always, with ethereals, there is a price…even if it is one you do not immediately realize.”

Kael nodded. “Thank you, Rom. I’ll bear that in mind.”

The prince took his leave of his beloved advisor then. Flitting among his people, he slipped from pavilion to pavilion with regal grace and an easy, dazzling smile. This was no less treacherous than combat, however; sin’dorei fetes were their own manner of battlefield, with charm and gossip the weapons of choice, and the seizing of favors and cementing of prestige and position the prize. This was no less true in Outland, and perhaps it was even truer here than on Azeroth, as the game board had been shaken up considerably since the horrors of the Third War and the end of the old order. Those hale enough to follow their prince out of the ruins to seek vengeance and forge a new path to glory were well aware of their relative privilege and their proximity to power. Some reveled in it and nakedly used it to their advantage; others chose to bide their time and were more subtle and circumspect in their ambitions. The latter group were the ones who greeted Kael cordially and spoke of seemingly inconsequential matters, secure in the knowledge that they had the prince’s ear.

As the Lord of Outland’s right hand, supreme commander, and known consort, however, he was not a target for only sin’dorei politicking. The Illidari demons and the naga too vied for his attentions by turns, knowing full well that the path to Illidan went directly through him. The naga plied him seemingly endlessly with flattery and platitudes. Not one approached him who did not pursue some obscure agenda, either personal or on behalf of this or that faction. 

It was within these exchanges that Kael truly understood the commonality of their ancestry. He had believed, before, that the naga had become far more tribal in nature than his people, with their transformation and long sojourn within the deeps, as they built an empire beneath the waves. Was their scheming on behalf of clan and matron any truly different than that which occurred among what was left of the Great Houses, though? Kael was no longer certain. They all sought to stake their claims in a harsh and strange land, where few of the norms to which they were accustomed applied, and not merely survive but thrive. Adapt or die—that was a creed by which they all lived, in Outland. The serpentine children of a faraway sea shackled to the will of a madwoman were perhaps forced to adapt most of all.

If the politics of the Highborne’s wayward descendants were familiar to him, though, those of demons were obscure and rather made Kael’s head hurt at times. Some had been closer to fallen Magtheridon than others, in the old regime of the Temple, and sought to regain their lost privilege by proving themselves most useful in fighting their Legion-loyal brethren. Others sought merely to cement their position in the new order. Each employed methods that spoke to the diversity of their varying species; the nathrezim appealed to his ego, the succubi to his baser urges, and so on. Nearly all of them had in common that most familiar of motivations, however: power, and its pursuit. He was exceedingly careful to respect that which they’d earned, yet give little more in return. For all their oaths of allegiance, he was a mage, and far more wary of demons than Illidan.

And so Kael smiled, and made light conversation, but little in the way of promises.

At last, he sought out the most significant of his guests. The ethereals had been mingling among the other revelers, but their elusive leader was nowhere to be seen, not until Kael chanced upon the pavilion that served as their refuge, near one of the larger fountains. A pair of ethereals stood a watchful guard at a discreet distance as the one sporting the jeweled turban whom Kael had spotted earlier reached up with a ghostly hand to brush the leaves of a slender golden laurel tree. And if his station had not been made clear by the lavishness of his turban, it certainly would have been by the rest of his attire. His violet wrappings were far from the bandage-like materials worn by the ordinary traders with whom Kael was more familiar, but were made of the same finely spun netherweave as the turban, velvet-soft and woven as tightly as his own mantle, with delicate embroidery work along the trim.

The guards bowed to Kael as he approached their lord, then conferred briefly with one another, but did not step forward to halt his passage.

“Fascinating! I’ve not seen its like anywhere in this world,” the Nexus-Prince marveled, so enraptured by the sight of the tree that he remained with his back turned to Kael. From anyone else, it may have been a terrible breach of protocol that should have offended him, but the curiosity of the ethereals was a trait Kael had taken to heart from his advisors. 

“It would stand to reason, for it is not of this world, your Excellency,” Kael said in idle amusement. “It was cultivated from a seed found only in the Eversong Woods upon Azeroth, far from this place.”

Haramad turned then, with a gracious incline of his head, his violet-wrapped arm lifted to his shoulder in a manner of salute. “Ah, the illustrious Prince Kael’thas,” he said by way of greeting. “Where are my manners? I am Nexus-Prince Haramad, and I lead the Consortium. It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. Though I must confess, I was beginning to wonder if perhaps my penmanship had offended you?”

Kael laughed a bit at that, smiling a bit ruefully, with only a hint of impishness. “Certainly not—it’s rather lovely, if I may be so bold. Sadly, it was our calendar that precluded such a meeting, until now. Our lives are consumed by strife in the Valley, with little time for the niceties of state.”

“Until now. I would say it is an unfortunate thing, but I lead a burgeoning trade empire. Trade is the lifeblood of nations, and war is the lifeblood of trade,” Haramad said. “But you are a man of two worlds, and know these things well. My sources inform me that you have led Lord Illidan’s forces to many victories against the Burning Legion.”

“My apologies if it’s bad for business,” Kael said dryly.

Peals of rich, melodic laughter tumbled forth from behind Haramad’s turban, airy and echoing through the night air. “To the contrary, good prince—I’ve made a mint arming you Illidari, and have saved a considerable sum in hazard pay for my mercenaries, now that they’re no longer forced to protect my caravans from the likes of fel reavers,” he replied. “The chaos of war may be excellent fuel for short term gains, but order in the long run brings more profit, in the surety that comes with stability. This is a philosophy that we of the Consortium find to be true.”

“Then it appears we may have a common desire, your Excellency,” Kael said. “Lord Illidan, too, seeks stability—we seek to rebuild and reclaim this world for outcasts and refugees two worlds over, and end the Legion’s savagery once and for all. That is why he fights with such vehemence.”

“And there was somewhat of a deal gone awry with its regent as well, yes?” Haramad said idly, his hand reaching once more for a golden leaf.

Rommath was correct in his assessment—Kael would do well not to underestimate the Consortium’s Nexus-Prince. It was no secret that Kil’jaeden had tasked Illidan with a dire mission in the frozen wastes of Azeroth, as recompense for some previous failure; for all the eredar lord’s subtlety, the sudden manifestation of an unholy storm and enormous apparition in the skies above Black Temple booming ultimatums into the night was hardly circumspect. But it was the second failure—the extent of the disaster in Northrend, and what it meant for the Illidari—that was of far less notoriety. Haramad’s casual dropping of information that, by all rights, should not have been known outside the confines of the Black Temple was something Kael noted well.

A man so versed in the art of negotiation as Haramad would not let his knowledge of such information slip unawares, or without purpose. Kael recognized an opening salvo when he saw one.

“Yes,” Kael said in an even tone. There was little point in dissembling, if Haramad already knew that much. “However, as such an esteemed merchant as yourself must know, there is frequently opportunity to be found even in the midst of failure. It surrounds us even in this broken world, and we mean to seize it. We are survivors, who pledge fealty to Lord Illidan’s cause, above anything else. As is he. Our travails and sacrifices only serve to make us stronger—as did his, for him.”

Haramad’s exquisite wrappings concealed a great many things, and perhaps it was why the ethereals made such canny traders to put even the shrewdest goblin to shame; goblins could not hide their expressions to such a degree as ethereals could. So it was that Kael could not immediately ascertain the Nexus-Prince’s reaction to his words. There were merely a pair of eerie glowing points of pulsating light fixed upon him from between tightly woven pieces of fabric.

“My people know something of survival,” Haramad said, and his tone was as impossible to discern as his expression, no longer casually jovial but not precisely grave, either. “And we know something of sacrifice for its sake. We of the Consortium are sympathetic to the plight of the sin’dorei. Perhaps you are correct, and we share a common aim. This is a good basis for negotiations, is it not?”

“Indeed,” Kael agreed.

“Excellent, for I believe we have a great deal to offer one another, your Highness. There is much the ethereals can provide the sin’dorei in pursuit of your dreams of a new homeland, one to rival the fabled Land of Eternal Spring itself.”

At that, Rommath’s warning rang clear in Kael’s mind. _With ethereals, there is always a price._

“And much the ethereals would ask of the sin’dorei in return,” Kael said, grinning slyly. That earned him more laughter from the enigmatic ethereal lord, and he was relieved that he had not miscalculated with his attempt at levity. Quite the contrary, it seemed to delight Haramad.

“Naturally, good man! But such is the nature of trade, in its purest, most enlightened form: a mutually beneficial exchange from which all parties exit further enriched in the manner by which they sought. Capital is the method by which we keep score on occasion, but in the end, we all win,” Haramad said. “This is what the Consortium believes.”

“A sound philosophy,” Kael said, with no small amount of admiration. There was honor, then, amidst the shrewdness.

“Truly, I am glad that we had this opportunity to speak, Prince Kael’thas. My duties are such that it is rare that I venture forth in person from the Stormspire. I would be honored if we could continue this conversation there, when your own duties permit?” Haramad said.

“It would be my pleasure, my lord,” Kael said.

“Excellent! I shall not keep you then. We shall speak again, but I bid you a fair evening,” Haramad said, with a graceful incline of his head. “And may it be a profitable one.”

“May it be so for you as well, Prince Haramad,” Kael said, with a genuine smile. With that he took his leave of the ethereals’ little enclave, leaving the Nexus-Prince to dote upon his tree in fascination. Kael found himself mildly disappointed that they did not have more time to speak with one another. Haramad was a droll, urbane sort of fellow, who brought to mind fond memories of some of Kael’s colleagues in the halcyon days in Dalaran—those with whom he spent evenings in his own salon or that of the Violet Parlor, debating philosophy and points of arcane knowledge and matching wits in obscure intrigues. Haramad would have fit right in with them, Kael believed, with his dry wit and perceptive mind.

Still, abbreviated though it may have been, Kael felt their conversation went well enough, and was eager to continue it at the Stormspire. The groundwork for an accord had been laid, and that was all he sought to accomplish that night. That Haramad confessed to some amount of sympathy for his people was an added bonus, as Kael was concerned.

Kael made a mental note to discover just what Haramad meant when he mentioned that the ethereals knew something of sacrifice and survival. In truth, no one knew just how or why the ethereals had come to Outland, despite his people’s best efforts to ferry out their secrets. Kael suspected the truth of it was what lay behind Haramad’s cryptic expression of empathy, and also firmly believed that it would prove beneficial to his people to learn what he could of Haramad and his Consortium.

What duties kept him within the confines of the Stormspire, and how dire must the need have been that he should leave it to pay call to the Black Temple and seek to open channels with the Lord of Outland? Was it duty that kept him, or was it danger? No one was without enemies, and Kael suspected Haramad counted more than the Legion among his own.

Yes, there was leverage to be had with the ethereals, Kael was certain of it. If he could simply find it, all the better.

Lost in thought as he was, he did not notice at first anything but the low murmur of serpentine hissing audible within earshot, fleeting tones of Nazja spoken that his elven ears could not discern.

Then, Kael lifted his gaze, and saw her in the distance, through a haze of scented white smoke and the golden, fiery gleam of the braziers.

Vashj.

Always, Kael had found her lovely. He had not lied when he said so to Rommath, speaking of her allure. But for so long as Kael had known the Lady Vashj, he had only ever seen her girded for battle. He knew her as the warrior priestess encased in gilded armor, wielding bow and spell in tandem, the cunning sorceress-general commanding the storm and the wave and the forces of the deep, fighting alongside him for Illidan, in the name of her queen. Beautiful though she was, it was a harsh and dangerous beauty, and only once had he ever seen that armor crack to reveal something of the woman inside, on that fateful night in the grotto.

Never had he seen her thus.

She was adorned in layers of cloth-of-gold gossamer, cut perilously low and studded by a thousand tiny seed pearls that shimmered like stars in the flickering light. As he drew nearer to her, he noted the intricate layering of her skirts, sheerer fabric dyed a gradient of tones not unlike a sunset, with shades of rust and a mauve akin to her fins. The gown was belted by an enormous braided chain of pearls with a golden clasp in the shape of a spiral—always, with naga, there were spirals. 

And she was truly awash in gold and pearls: a myriad of them, shimmering like the ones upon her dress. Nestled upon her décolletage, resting just above her cleavage, was a pendant of golden serpents wrapped about a large emerald. They were perhaps a conscious echo of the living serpents upon her head; he’d seen them briefly before, woven tightly into elaborate plaits, but at closer view he saw they were also coiled nearly in the manner of a crown, held in place by golden clasps. The clasps were crafted to match the cuffs upon her many arms, which in turn trailed gauzy scarves of finely woven spidersilk dyed to match her skirts. Indeed, within every aspect of her finery, it seemed, there was a manner of sacred symmetry, and a level of aesthetic detail and cohesion he would have previously thought only a sin’dorei could create. Lady Vashj wore it effortlessly.

Nearer still, he noted the way her sensuous lips were painted a deep shade of carmine; her angular, feline eyes were lined with kajal not unlike that upon his own, but elongated by sharp black wings that thickened as they drew nearer her browbone, with coral and violet artfully applied to her lids. Most of all, he noted the way her pale blue skin glowed with a faint sheen at the height of her sharp cheekbones, and at the delicate point of her chin, as though she were kissed by the waves she called home.

Indeed, Kael drank in every minute detail of her exquisite features, feasted with his eyes upon the magnificence of her face so polished like the shimmering pearls with which she was adorned. He could not help himself. And for the first time, he began to understand why she had been chosen by her queen, so long ago. It was not merely for her prodigious beauty, though that was surely a lion’s share of it. No, it too was for her bearing and demeanor, the way her lips curved into enigmatic smiles at a particular turn of phrase, the graceful way she lifted a hand to her mouth when she laughed, gilded claws glinting in the firelight. It was not merely her beauty that set her apart, but the elegance of her every movement, no matter how trivial. 

Every eye in the vicinity was upon her, as she held court near a fountain —Kael's most of all. With his gaze transfixed upon her, he was struck, remembering what Illidan said in the bath as they made ready that night. Illidan had wondered, so long ago, why in the world she was content to be a mere handmaiden, and though he did not realize his caregiver and Vashj were one and the same, Kael had to share his lover’s confusion.

Why would such a woman of queenly comport and dazzling beauty be content to live forever in the shadow of another, when every inch of her cried out for worship in her own right? What was Azshara, beside this glory? None of it was feigned, either—Kael knew well when it was, in sycophants and social climbers. No, Vashj had no need for such affectation; it was simply who she was, who she was meant to be, shaped by breeding and culture and the pinnacle of her station. She lived and breathed this manner of poise and sophistication for ten-thousand years. Vashj could be nothing less than what she was.

And Kael’thas Sunstrider, the shining, regal Sun Prince who’d been raised and shaped the same, and kept the very world wrapped about his own elegant finger, could do nothing less than desire her with all his heart. Prince or no, he would have fallen to his knees and prostrated before her in whatever manner she desired, in front of all who were gathered there, without a single care. As it stood, he drew to her in awe and barely suppressed trembling, as a supplicant wanting little more than to bask in her glory.

It took every ounce of self-discipline Kael possessed to mask his hunger as his gaze fixed upon her, and still he feared it inadequate, for when he saw her his mind kept returning to the grotto, and the memory of her tongue sliding between his lips, the velvet softness of her scales so smooth to the touch. His blood ran hot to think of the way she melted into his arms, and how he longed to drown in hers, too passionate for merely two. Truly, she stoked raging fires of desire within him—fires fed by her absence, and the impossible nature of this longing. The lure of the forbidden was a powerful one, and the Lady Vashj was more forbidden to him than anyone had ever been in his life. 

It was a torment to him, but a sweet one. 

And then her golden eyes locked upon his fel-tinged green, watching and waiting, searching and bright. Kael felt his pulse rise up into his throat, beating in his ears, quickening his blood. He had a sudden, fleeting thought of the ribald legends he’d read as a boy of sirens leading sailors to their doom, and wondered if there were truth to them. Vashj was no siren—she was far more powerful—but she called to him all the same, without speaking a single word.

He crossed the remaining distance to her without thinking.

“ _Ishnu-alah_ , Lady Vashj,” Kael said, swallowing down the dryness in his mouth. He swept into a gracious bow before her, with all the princely comport he could muster; the manner of bow afforded a peer, and not a vassal. She deserved no less. Never had it been such a struggle to do what came as second nature in accordance with his royal breeding, but he felt much more akin to the doomed sailors of legend in that moment than he did the archmage scion of the oldest surviving royal dynasty on Azeroth, drowning in the presence of her.

“Prince Kael’thas,” Vashj replied; her long, curled lashes fluttered gently as she did, blinking slowly, with a slow incline of her head. In a single elegant motion filled with serpentine fluidity, she lowered into a curtsey of her own, sinuous and graceful as always despite the awkwardness of her tail. Her voice, reverberating melodically with the fathomless power of the deep, was low and sultry and like balm to his spirit. It had been far too long since last he heard it, and his pulse quickened that much more to hear it wrapped about his name like a mantle of soft velvet.

Still bowing, Kael reached out with a ringed hand, grasping one of hers and raising it to his lips; he pressed them softly against her scales, breathing warmth and heat as he did.

It was far more sensual than was customary, but Kael danced the knife’s edge as closely as he dared, gazing up at her with smoldering eyes full of daring and challenge.

She did not pull back her hand. To the contrary, there was a slight—but noticeable—trembling within his grasp, and a subtle bit of pressure against his lips. In the end, it was Kael who released her, lest he succumb to temptation.

Vashj smiled at him, with gleaming fangs.

Kael surreptitiously took a breath to steady himself. “It has been far too long, my lady. Your absence from the temple has been…unfortunate,” he said.

“My apologies, young prince,” Vashj replied in a neutral tone, though her eyes pointedly did not leave his. “Duty is a harsh taskmistress, at times.”

“Indeed it is. Would you mind walking with me a bit? We have some catching up to do,” Kael said. He offered his arm, and a glass of plum wine from a passing servant’s tray.

“That we do, Kael,” she said, smiling neutrally. “I’ve missed our chats.” She accepted the wine and arm graciously, lightly resting a hand upon him.

Together they strolled the promenade, and there was a palpable sense of electricity between them, told in the warmth of her touch, the light caress of her gilded claws against his finery, the glances which lingered.

“It is a dangerous game you play. We are not in your glimmering city, Kael,” Vashj cautioned in a quiet tone, as they leisurely found their way to a relatively secluded corner of the terraces.

“Neither are we in yours,” Kael countered.

“Yet we are bound by its strictures nonetheless,” Vashj said. “You would do well to remember that, next time you greet me.”

Kael leaned against the railing, taking a sip of plum wine, sweet and fiery upon his tongue. “I apologize if I was too forward, my lady. I was under the impression that it was welcome attention. If I was mistaken—”

“You were not.”

Kael blinked, and took another sip of his wine. He was not precisely surprised by the notion; he’d read the signals from her well enough to divine that in the first place. Rather it was the open admission that startled him. It was not something Vashj was prone to do.

But she said it, and her golden eyes were smoldering behind heavy lids when she did, in a thoroughly penetrating stare that made him sip his wine a third time to fortify himself. Emboldened, he took a step closer to her—only a step, mindful of the eyes upon them both, and that this was not a hidden, secluded grotto.

"I remember your kiss as though it were yesterday," Kael said, low and soft, that only she might hear it.

"You tread dangerous waters once more, my dear prince," Vashj replied, matching his quiet tone. But her golden eyes held his gaze all the same, unflinching. 

"As I did that night," Kael said, "and I was guided safely through them, if I recall." 

"You had no conception of the danger, neither then nor now," Vashj warned. 

"But I know its allure," Kael said, his mouth curving into a wicked little smile. 

Vashj sighed, raising her glass to her lips so artfully painted, and took a long drink, glancing about for a moment. “You are temptation personified, sweet prince,” she said softly, as her golden claws lightly grazed along his forearm; his breath hitched in his throat. “Do not think you are not. But it is as I said: I cannot be forsworn.”

When she withdrew her hand, he felt bereft in a way he never had in his life. His heart sank like lead within his chest, and he leaned forward, as closely as he dared without drawing suspicion.

“Please, Vashj. I _need_ you,” Kael said, low and breathless, his voice cracking.

“Lord Illidan and I have both suffered ten-thousand years of unsated need, my dear. You shall live a few weeks,” Vashj said, sipping her wine with indifference. 

Kael’s jaw clenched tightly. It was the casualness of her cruelty that twisted the knife so deep within him, but he could not deny how petulant he truly must have sounded to her, given the nature of the pain she suffered for so long. Vashj yearned for a man who did not even know her name, while bound to a tyrant.

But the hurt was still raw; the heart was never as rational as the mind. All thought of the fete, of ethereals and intrigues, seemed so distant then, insignificant in the face of that pain. And it was pain shared, there was no doubt of that, either. Vashj held her glass in a vice grip, and there were other signs of what he now recognized as telltale tension, hairline fractures in that courtly mask she so expertly wore. Her own words revealed them.

“I will do what I must,” Kael said, breathing deeply, allowing the warmth of the wine to soothe him, as though anything could. “I know that you do what you must, what you have always done to survive within the world in which you thrive. But as I said in the grotto, that place is a world away from here.”

“Nothing has changed since that night,” Vashj murmured into her glass.

“Everything has changed,” Kael said with a quiet firmness. “You and I both know it, and you do us both a disservice by pretending otherwise. But have a care, my lady. I am not the only one who has noted your absence these long weeks. People are beginning to talk. You speak so much of your duty to your Queen, but is it not her will that you serve Lord Illidan, as it was so long ago?”

“Do not deign to speak of the Queen to me, Kael’thas,” Vashj hissed sharply. “Not when you wish me to betray Her.”

“Then serve, as she wills. Take your rightful place at Illidan’s side. I am his right hand, but you are the left, and were thus before I even knew him. Or would you prefer the likes of Bladefist or Akama to usurp you?”

Kael, too, could be cruel when he wished.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It was not Bladefist or Akama that he moved the very sea to call from the depths,” Vashj replied cooly. “Still, if you would ask me to serve, then I must ask it of you in return. For you should also have a care, my prince. This is neither the time nor the place for such talk, and I believe you know this. If you would be his right hand, then act like it.” Her eyes softened then, along with her voice. “I understand your torment, Kael, more than you could possibly know. But you shall learn in time to carry it with grace, as you have done before, with many sorrows. You must, for you have no other choice. That is simply what it means to be who we are. Are you not a prince? I should not have to tell you.”

She took a long drink from her glass then, resting a hand beneath her chin as she gazed upon him with those piercing golden eyes that seemed to bore right into his soul, laying him bare in all his foolishness. She was right. He knew she was right, that he was being childish and irresponsible, and terribly unfair to her in the process.

“I am being rather ridiculous, aren’t I?” Kael mused aloud, rather sheepishly.

Vashj’s lips quirked into a slight, enigmatic smile. “Mildly, my dear,” she replied.

At that, he could not help but sigh at his own thoughtlessness. “No, more than mildly, I think. That was petty of me, and you have my sincerest apologies, my lady. I’ll admit that I’m a bit out of sorts, where all of this is concerned. Not merely over our…dilemma, but regarding our mission here in Outland, as well. This fete is crucial to furthering our aims, and perhaps this has all been weighing upon me more than I believed. I should not be taking it out on you.”

Her eyes widened then, ever so slightly; if Kael had not been staring directly into them, he may not have noticed it. But they did, if only a hairsbreadth, and only for a moment, before she smoothly raised her glass back to her lips. “I appreciate it, Kael. Still, I have been avoidant, and you are right that it must end, for Lord Illidan’s sake. But you must understand why I kept my distance.”

“I do. Shall we start anew then, and serve our master?” Kael asked.

Vashj’s smile grew wider then, her fangs bright and sharp. “So we shall.”

It was at that very moment that the gong sounded a second time, signaling to the myriad guests that the dinner hour had arrived. Kael offered his arm to Vashj, she graciously accepted, and together they followed the steady stream of guests venturing up to the highest point of the promenade.

Dinner was to be served there, at long tables draped in fine, dark linens, though certain concessions were made to the classical Highborne style of entertaining, for the sake of the naga guests: the tables were higher than they might otherwise have been, and ornately carved chairs with low backs replaced the customary silk floor cushions as seating. Illidan and his elite inner circle were naturally placed at the highest point, upon a dais, and Kael escorted Vashj there, at the left side of the table’s head, then took his own place at the right. As the guest of honor, Rommath stood beside him, and they exchanged a wordless smile, while the Nexus-Prince and his entourage followed and stood before their own seats. Indeed, all who were gathered stood in anticipation, not daring to sit before the Lord of Outland.

When the master himself ascended the stair and took his place, with his silk garments billowing behind him, he paused for a moment, gazing down upon the gathered guests with his unnatural vision. His massive chest glistened and puffed out a bit when he drew in a deep breath, and he smoothed his hands down the front of his silken mantle. 

What a strange thing it must have been to have every eye upon him and hanging on his word, Kael mused silently to himself, as a man who spent so many years hanging upon the word of his captors. Perhaps that was why he seemed to savor it so. Kael smiled faintly at the thought.

“Please,” Illidan said, extending a clawed hand in a sweeping gesture across the table as he folded in his massive wings and sat down. Everyone followed his lead, but for Kael, who quickly crossed to the other side of the table and held Vashj’s chair out for her. 

“Thank you, Kael,” Vashj said, as two of her hands lightly gripped his arm for support, and she slid her tail about and sunk into the chair.

“It’s no trouble, my lady,” Kael replied with a smile, and slid her closer to the table, before taking his own seat across from her. 

Illidan’s long, dark brows quirked then, and he turned his gaze upon her, mouth parting just a moment before he spoke. “It’s good to see you here, Vashj. Your presence has been sorely missed within these halls,” he said. A positively impish grin spread slowly across his lips, and it seemed that the glowing points of fel green light behind his blindfold grew brighter for a moment. “I’ve been of a mind to summon you the way I did the first time,” he added, with a cheeky quirk of his brows.

“My apologies, Lord Illidan, but I do not believe that will be necessary. Please forgive my absence from the temple. There were certain matters of import that needed my attention,” Vashj said.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Illidan replied, with a hint of a low purr in his voice, the kind that made Kael’s mouth grow as dry as his palms grew moist.

He reached for his water chalice, feeling rather like an adolescent then.

Attendants from the Den had been pressed into service that night, at Capernian’s insistence; Kael agreed that they were far better suited to the task than the Broken. There was a certain elegance to sin’dorei service that he found unmatched, quiet and unobtrusive. It was no single quality in particular, but rather the sum of its parts, such as the artful line of the arm as they poured glasses, never leaving them empty, and without a word of command required. Kael had missed these sorts of niceties more than he believed. Even the few humans who served as attendants in the Den were trained in them, and performed admirably.  

Haramad gazed curiously at one, a young woman, when she filled his wine glass. “I did not know there were humans among the Illidari,” he mused aloud. She blushed, but said nothing, quickly moving down the table.

“Some scant few, your Excellency,” the lush, melodic voice of a woman replied with the telltale reverberation of a shivarra. Kael glanced over and saw Mother Shahraz, as she gingerly lifted her veil aside to sip deep red wine. She lowered it once more before speaking again. “I’m sure you know of the human expedition to this world years ago, when they came to finish their war with the orcs?”

“Of course,” Haramad said.

“It seems there were some who had second thoughts. Even years later, there was the occasional deserter from their bases. Magtheridon made a game of capturing them. Some he would use as fodder in his endless hunt of the draenei. Others, he sent to me,” Shahraz explained. Her eyes narrowed then, and Kael saw her fingers curl tightly about the stem of her wine glass in a vice grip. “I did my best to care for those. But he and his minions were…unkind. It will suffice to say that those who remained when Lord Illidan and his army liberated the temple were immensely grateful, and serve here now out of gratitude. On rare occasion, we receive human youths who were born in the Alliance outposts, and fled them seeking adventure or freedom. In the Den, those unwilling or too young to be companions are attendants.” At the last, she gestured with a free hand to the young girl.

“If they are loyal and do not cause trouble, I care little of their origins,” Illidan added with a shrug of his broad shoulders, wings fluttering. “I know what it means to be restless, and outcast. So long as I reign over the Black Temple, it will be a place of refuge for any who would swear fealty and aid us against the Legion.”

Haramad nodded, raising a glass filled with an incandescent substance of some sort, gleaming silvery blue. “I did not expect you to be a man of compassion, Lord Illidan,” he said admiringly, by way of toast.

“Few do,” Illidan replied, with a slight, self-deprecating smile.

The servants, human and blood elf alike, brought out tray after tray of delectable, savory dishes for each course with that customary quiet, unobtrusive grace. It was an eclectic mix of cuisines on display that night, from delicate consommés to spiced draenei curries to succulent clefthoof filets dressed in sweet glazes. Kael was distinctly curious about the more exotic foods on offer, and watched rapt as a sin’dorei set a tray before the Nexus-Prince. It bore what resembled a large, chiseled brick of rose quartz; this was a kind of salt mined high in the mountains of Nagrand, if he remembered correctly. Upon the salt block rested colorful shards of glittering gemstones in a rainbow of colors, artfully arranged in an abstract pattern. One by one, Haramad lifted them and crushed them to little more than dust, rendering them down to pure vibrational energy for consumption.

It was fascinating, but Kael caught himself staring, and quickly tore his eyes away, fixating upon his own plate of wild, peppery greens and thinly sliced talbuk venison. He silently chided himself, and dearly hoped Haramad did not notice his rude gaping.

By a similar token, he smoothly averted his eyes from Vashj’s plate, albeit for very different reasons; at the first glance of a skewer of impaled whelks and a tiny, wriggling tentacle threatening to escape its Thalassian tagine, he decided that perhaps it was best if he did not dwell overmuch upon the finer details of naga haute cuisine. Kael was hardly squeamish, but that was a bit much for his sin’dorei sensibilities.

Instead, he turned to Rommath, who was deep in quiet conversation with Illidan. Kael was glad for it, as he feared his old friend’s reticence that night stemmed from discomfort, and not his usual introversion.

“You have served here with great distinction, young magister. We will miss you,” Illidan said.

Rommath grew bright red to the very tips of his ears, and Kael grinned into his wine glass at it. “I—thank you, Lord Illidan, but the honor was and is mine, always. The sin’dorei owe you a debt that can truly never be repaid,” he said softly, with an incline of his head.

“It was only just. We needed one another,” Illidan said.

“Indeed, your cause is our own. Still. The world itself abandoned us to our fate, but you, my lord, did not. You gave us the gift of a future when we had none, and as Grand Magister of Quel’Thalas, I shall do everything within my power to ensure that precious gift is not squandered,” Rommath said.

“Ah, that reminds me! We brought some small tokens for you all, my lord magister,” Haramad said, as he idly swirled his glass of sparkling light. “Mere trifles, truly, but a gesture of goodwill and friendship from the Consortium to the sin’dorei—and His Lordship. Shall we present them after the meal, your Highness?”

Rommath’s eyes met Kael, and they exchanged a brief, surreptitious glance.

Always a price.

“Of course, your Excellency. You are too kind,” Kael replied, smiling.

The dessert course was a selection of elaborate sin’dorei pastries filled with preserves made of the exotic fruits of Nagrand, served with a sweet, crisp wine with citrus notes. At the coda, attendants brought small vessels of warm, scented water, and Kael’s senses were filled with the light aroma of orangeblossom as he dipped his fingers into one offered by very familiar demonic hands.

Valas’ eyes remained appropriately lowered, but there was a hint of an impish smile upon his pouting lips as he gently toweled Kael’s fingers dry with warm linen, lightly massaging his hands. That incubus would be the death of him this night, Kael thought to himself with silent amusement.

With the meal concluded, Illidan rose from the table and the others followed, Kael assisting Vashj once more, and they descended the dais to return to their pavilion across the Promenade. This time, however, Illidan was joined by both his trusted lieutenants as they all took their seats: Kael on the right, and Vashj on the left. Kael noted the way Illidan sighed in contentment, leaning back to lounge like an indolent cat upon his couch, a faint smile spreading across his lips as his gaze fell upon each of them in turn, and he sank into the jewel-toned silk cushions. 

Vashj echoed his movement upon her own couch, leaning toward him to recline, all lush and sinuous curves, with a pair of arms resting upon a pillow, and other hands resting upon her gossamer-sheathed hip. With her tail relaxed and coiled about, she was the very picture of sensual contentment. 

An abiding sensation of warmth settled deep within Kael’s chest at the sight of them, and he permitted himself a flight of fancy, wondering if she too felt the rightness of it, of the three of them: the Lord of Outland and his consorts, the epitome of grace and regality.

It did not escape Rommath either, when he took his place of honor on the couch beside Kael’s. He glanced at the three of them, and when his eyes met Kael’s, he smiled warmly, with no hint of envy or malice, merely appreciation. In the end, they knew one another too well and for too long; Rommath could never begrudge him any happiness. His oldest friend reached out to take his hand, and kissed the signet of House Sunstrider, not in the discreet and obsequious manner of a courtier then, by any means, but with pouting lips that lingered overlong on his knuckle, warm and soft, and his thumb caressed the tips of Kael’s fingers. Kael’s skin flushed and his breath hitched a bit; he pressed his hand into the kiss, and then caressed Rommath’s cheek with it, resting his palm there, while Rommath’s long, curled eyelashes fluttered at his touch.

Perhaps it was the boldness that came with happiness, or simply Illidan’s influence, but Kael cared little of discretion just then. For the briefest of moments, he glanced over at Illidan, who merely rumbled his approval with that low purring of his that rose deep from within. Vashj smiled enigmatically, but said nothing.

It was then that the “mere trifles” of which Haramad spoke were unveiled one at a time by his bodyguards in a seemingly endless parade before the dais: ornate chests filled with priceless silk fabrics, jeweled coffers packed with the finest and rarest spices, and the purest of incenses and herbal blends for the sin’dorei’s ubiquitous hookahs. There was no mistaking the intent of such lavish gifts, in Kael’s eyes: Haramad and his Consortium were paying tribute, proclaiming before all who were gathered there that they acknowledged Illidan’s claim of rulership, and through no half measures.

The Nexus-Prince himself presented the final tribute gifts. “For the guest of honor,” he began grandly, presenting the Grand Magister with a small, gilded box covered in jewels. Rommath inclined his head graciously, and carefully removed the lid to uncover an enormous crimson spinel, cut in the shape of a phoenix. The clarity and brilliance of the figure was remarkable; it fair dazzled when Rommath held it up to the light of the lantern hanging in the pavilion, casting flickering shadows upon the carpet.

“This is truly magnificent, your Excellency,” Rommath said, with no small amount of awe. He examined it curiously, his head tilted just so. “Is it—?”

“Yes, Lord Rommath. It is imbued with powerful enchantments, to serve as a focus in spellwork. You should find it enhances the harnessing of arcane energy,” Haramad answered.

Kael suppressed a fit of laughter as Rommath’s eyes grew wide and gleamed nearly as brightly as the spinel. “Thank you sincerely, your Excellency. I shall treasure it dearly,” Rommath said a bit breathlessly, still staring at the phoenix.

Haramad tented his fingers and bowed, then clapped sharply, and received a large book from one of his aides, bound in black leather; he presented it to Illidan then, on bended knee. “For you, Lord Illidan, I present a rare tome of demonic lore. I am unfamiliar as such with the fel arts, but it is said to contain the true names of a number of the Deceiver’s high ranking lieutenants, and I would imagine such a thing would be of interest to you?”

“Indeed it is, Nexus-Prince. Indeed it is,” Illidan replied, grinning like a cat who’d gotten into the cream, taking the book from the ethereal’s outstretched hands, and smoothing his own along the cover. His brows furrowed, then relaxed when he opened the grimoire. Kael leaned toward Illidan’s couch, edging a bit closer to catch a glimpse of it. It was in pristine condition despite the age of the vellum, and he recognized the harsh, angular lettering as Orcish script, with a faintly shimmering darkness to it. Despite that, Kael could not help but pose the question.

“Master, will you be able to…?” Kael asked delicately. Illidan’s grin grew wider, his fel eyes never leaving the pages.

“It’s darkflame ink. Clear as day, before my vision,” Illidan said triumphantly. He gazed down at Haramad. “Gul’dan would have killed for this book. I do not know how you procured it, but I thank you, Nexus-Prince. So might two worlds and more thank you, in the end.”

“May it bring the Legion’s end that much swifter, my lord,” Haramad agreed fervently. He rose to his feet at last, and another of his guards stepped forward, holding out a long, thin box carved of what appeared to be sandalwood. “Ah, this is for you, Prince Kael’thas,” he said, passing the container along.

Kael accepted it with a quirked brow, and tried not to be too eager when he unfastened the latches and carefully opened the hinged lid.

Resting inside, on a bed of plush cambric runecloth dyed a vermillion hue, was the most ornate scabbard he had ever seen. It was long, with a slight, telltale curve to it—the perfect size for an elven talwar, and specifically for Felo’melorn. Unlike the simple, somewhat utilitarian leather sheath he’d been forced to use for the spellblade since the original was lost with the fall of the Isle, this was fashioned of gold in its entirety, with exquisite filigree etched into it bringing to mind stylized phoenix feathers, much like the blade itself. That alone would have made it a work of art, but its locket and chape were further inlaid with ivory and a veritable king’s ransom of jewels: pyrestone, empyrean sapphire, seaspray emerald, shadowsong amethyst, and skyfire diamond. Coiled beside the scabbard were a belt and baldric of exceptional quality crafted of soft black clefthoof leather, oiled and polished to a shine so gleaming they nearly matched the jewels upon the scabbard in their radiance.

“I hope you find it adequate, your Highness, though nothing can replace the quality of Highborne craftsmanship,” Haramad said, spreading his gloved fingers wide by way of apology. Though he recalled clearly Rommath’s earlier advice, Kael could not help but be charmed by the ethereal prince’s manner. Haramad would have put any of the dramatic players at the Grand Theatron in Silvermoon to shame, but there was something endearing rather than distasteful about it.

Perhaps the priceless nature of the urbane fellow’s gift helped. As Kael’s fingers traced the intricate feather patterns of filigree, he found himself at a rare loss for words. Though he’d never told a soul, ofttimes he feared that he somehow dishonored his grandfather’s memory and legacy by keeping his legendary blade in such an ordinary sheath. There was little else for it, however, considering the sin’dorei’s lack of resources; he was fortunate at all to have been able to reforge the blade in the first place, and in the main he was forced to scavenge that sheath like so much else from the worn scraps Garithos called supplies for him and his soldiers. Every time he looked upon it, it was a stark and bitter reminder of those days. And there was so much else on his mind, between securing Outland and the Northrend campaign, that he simply had not found the time or opportunity to replace it.

But this…this was worthy of Dath’Remar’s storied blade, and dare Kael say it, a worthy addition to the Sunstrider legacy, for all that meant anymore.

“It is more than adequate, Haramad. You have my gratitude,” Kael replied at last.

“I am glad for it. And last, but certainly not least, a gift for the lady of the demesne. Something befitting the Pearl of Nazjatar, yes?” Haramad gestured for the final gift to be brought forward: a large, bulky thing covered in concealing netherweave draping, it took two of his guardsmen to lift it, straining with the effort, and they set it before the dais. With the flourish of a natural born showman, Haramad removed the draping, and in one smooth gesture bowed before the naga high priestess.

It was an exquisite, gilded harp, wrought of an exotic wood that seemed to Kael a darker manner of cherry, carved with an intricate serpent design that formed the instrument’s neck. The creature’s head rested atop the crown, with two enormous lionseye jewels for eyes—the precise color of Vashj’s own.

Vashj brought one of her hands to her heart, stroking the pendant which rested there as she leaned forward and caressed the intricate carvings with all the idle languor of a woman who, of a surety, did not wish to reveal the extent of her pleasure. Overeagerness would not become her. But Kael noted the way her lowest set of arms wrapped about her body to hug herself tightly, and the bright gleam in her eyes, and smiled.

“Would you grace us with a song, Vashj?”

The question posed by Illidan was sudden, and quite unexpected; she froze in mid-touch, with hands resting upon the carved serpent’s head. A second set clasped one another, her eyes lowered demurely upon them. “Forgive me, my lord, but it has been many years since I was last called upon to perform at court. I’m afraid I am terribly out of practice,” she murmured softly.

“It doubtless makes little difference for one of your skill,” Illidan began with a shrug. “Still, it is not my wish to compel you, if you feel ill at ease. It would only please me greatly, is all.”

Vashj’s coral-stained lips curved into another of her inscrutable smiles, and with a gracious incline of her head, she said, “Then…am I not compelled by that alone, my lord?”

“Oh ho! She has you there, great lord!” Haramad cackled, a pulsating echo from within his ornate turban. “The lady priestess is as droll as she is lovely. Well, don’t just stand there, Yazaat—“ He gestured toward his guards, and two of them hefted the instrument up the dais, sitting it down before Vashj’s couch.

“Thank you kindly, gentlemen,” she said. Vashj rose up from her relaxed position to sit up straight, three or four hands tentatively plucking at the taut strings of the harp, quietly humming beneath her breath in preparation. And then she paused, for a long and agonizing moment, letting her gaze fall upon her audience, before she spoke once more. “I offer you a ballad from long ago, composed in a time before barbarous strife and foul curses, when the Highborne dreamed of pleasure amidst night blooming gardens.”

One could have heard the drop of a pin upon the stones of the courtyard, with such a silence as fell over the fete. Even those few guests who bore no curiosity over what the ethereals would offer as tribute—and they were few indeed—gathered as near as they dared, to hear Lady Vashj. Every eye was fixed upon her, eager and anxious.

Slowly, a multitude of delicate fingers brushed across the strings of the harp, strumming out a languid, dreamy melody, deftly working the gut despite the sharpness of her gilded claws.

And then Vashj lifted her voice in song.

By the Light, that voice…Kael’s heart ached to hear it. Hers was not the girlish soprano of a maiden, bearing the saccharine clarion of youth, no; it resonated across the terrace with all the knowing and sultry richness of a woman grown, ageless and eternal. The verses it formed in such heartrending beauty were an archaic dialect of the kaldorei tongue, but it was near enough to Kael’s own Thalassian that he understood their meaning. Perhaps he understood more than most: for it was a song of seduction, speaking of impossible yearning and forbidden desires, echoing the depths of aching hunger in her soul. Vashj sang it with every bit of the passion she’d kept buried beneath that veil of mystery, with all the ancient ardor she’d kept locked away and revealed to no one but Kael, and even then only once upon a solitary night in a hidden grotto. 

There was nothing Vashj did that was not deliberate. This, he knew well. Kael knew the choice of this particular ballad was no accident, not by a woman so cunning.

To think, Illidan asked her for a song. Would that he knew precisely what she gave him in response; would that he knew what she ached to give him but dared not in truth, trapped within her gilded cage. As her many hands caressed the harp’s strings with a lover’s measured touch, it was as though the terrace faded away with all its myriad guests, and they were the only ones in all the world. Kael watched as Illidan shifted in his seat, the shrouded points of emerald light fading behind his blindfold as he shut his fel eyes and took a deep, unfettered breath, exhaling a great, rapturous sigh, stroking the curved arm of the divan. It seemed then that he had been transported to a place far, far from the Black Temple.

Kael wondered if it was a convalescence bed in Zin-Azshari.

On the second verse, Vashj’s new harp was no longer alone in its accompaniment. The satyrs with their pan pipes joined her in counterpoint, first one and then another, and they in turn were joined by others striking percussive rhythms with drums and tambourines, slow and steady, much in the manner of a heartbeat.

Truly, he could not blame Illidan for becoming so spellbound, and once more Kael found himself thinking of those crude legends superstitious sailors held the world over, for Vashj’s song in all its ardent passion washed over him, wave upon cresting wave. He shut his eyes for a moment and lost himself in it, wondering if she'd truly woven a spell. But there was no magic he could sense, no subtle workings of art from Vashj but that of intricate harmony and pure, unadulterated sensuality. 

When first she explained to him what it meant to be a Handmaiden, she spoke of it in terms of the cherished ideals of the Highborne, ideals that the Queen herself embodied: perfection in its most pure aesthetic form. But Kael did not truly understand until this night that Vashj was the very embodiment of what it meant to be a Handmaiden of Azshara. This, and not merely her cunning, was why she endured for as long as her damned queen. It was why she remained chief among her peers for countless millennia. Vashj was everything Azshara craved when she conceived of that cruel sisterhood: the living realization of desire, possessed by her and her alone.

Yet there was also somewhat contrary in Vashj, the smallest of sparks, that rebelled and yearned for more than her exalted station permitted, and dwelled paradoxically beside that apparent docility. Kael was not so arrogant as to believe he planted that seed; once she went to Tyrande, after all, begging to know if a love anathema to her was returned. Even then, she was somewhat more than her Queen chose for her, this paragon of concubines.

It resonated in her song, if only one knew her, and the fathomless depths within her.

Upon the third verse, a small chorus of sirens joined her in a veritable symphony of harmony. The satyrs’ drumming became harder, more driving, yet retained that stately tempo. It was like no Highborne song Kael had ever heard, exponentially richer, more complex, and more beautiful than anything he could describe.

Something he'd encountered in the past came to mind, then. After dwelling among them for so long in the city of Dalaran, Kael had observed a particularly stubborn, persistent and odious strain of thought among certain humans: that those they deemed evil or monstrous must enjoy neither skill nor passion for the cultured arts. Even at his most naively ignorant, Kael knew it for a lie; he’d heard the complex rhythms sounded on makeshift drums within the orcish internment camps, and the strains of dirges for lost Draenor with them. He supposed it was a way for those humans who deemed themselves too erudite for base prejudice to deprive their enemies of those qualities of fundamental virtue which they held to be synonymous with humanity—this would make it simpler to demonize and crush them. Men such as Garithos believed these things; he would have believed it true of the naga, that he called vile.

Lady Vashj forever put the lie to such bigoted nonsense. Let any human dare to make such music, from a cursed heart bled thousands of years, Kael thought defiantly. 

He was not alone in his wonder, and admiration. Many among the sin’dorei wept openly. Even those most hardened of warriors, the Eclipsion, dabbed at their eyes with silken handkerchiefs. Not one among the revelers was left unmoved, not even the enigmatic ethereals; not even Haramad could have known his gift would inspire such beauty, and he reverently pressed his gloved hands together before the mouth of his burnoose.

The song ended at last with cresting waves of undulating, wordless chords, over and again, until Vashj plucked the final note, lowered her hands from the harp, and bowed her head.

She was met with thunderous applause.

“Your voice is like the light of Elune, shining in the darkness,” Illidan said, over the sound of the cheers. “Thank you, dear lady.”

“You flatter me, Lord Illidan,” she said, with a modest smile, though the sparkle in her golden eyes told a different tale.

“I only speak the truth.” Illidan returned her smile, as a servant offered him a glass of cordial, which he fair rumbled into. 

“Indeed. You were magnificent,” Kael added in agreement.

It slipped, that courtier’s mask; Kael’s gaze was leveled on her, and thus he saw that brief moment. He saw the faint hint of mauve creep into her cheeks, and the subtle flutter of her eyelashes. She said nothing, though, and smiled into the glass she took from the servant’s tray.

It seemed Vashj’s song was an inspiration to the musicians, and when the applause began to ebb, they took up a far more festive air, to the delight of the revelers, who flooded the Promenade in pairs to dance. Perhaps spurred by Vashj’s manner of boldness—such that it was—Kael rose from his couch.

“Shall we, Grand Magister?” he asked, extending his hand to Rommath, whose eyes went a bit wide for only a moment before taking it.

“It would be my honor, your Highness,” Rommath said.

It was to the sounds of a light, airy waltz that they glided across the floor, Rommath as always ever content to follow the lead of his prince. And as always, Kael moved with an exquisite grace, nimble and sure.

“She really does have a lovely voice,” Rommath said at last.

“Rom…” Kael began, but Rommath lightly shook his head.

“I’m gay, Kael, not deaf—or blind, for that matter. I understand. I won’t pretend I’m entirely devoid of envy, but I understand.” Rommath chuckled a bit sardonically, then, and gave him a teasing little smile before adding, “Besides, you never did aim low.”

Kael gave him a pointed, smoldering look in return, pressing tighter against Rommath, fingers spreading upon his waist in the hint of a caress. “Never,” he purred, and Rommath turned red to his hairline, and it was all Kael could do to suppress his laughter.

“Well. A prince only deserves the best,” Rommath said, raising his chin with playful arrogance.

“This was meant to be your night,” Kael said softly, as their dance slowed with the music.

“And it is. I have the favor of the Lord of Outland, a tribute gift from the Nexus-Prince of the Consortium, and the heart of my prince. I sat the honor seat before all our allies,” Rommath replied. “How many can claim as much? I am content.”

“Be frank with me, love. Do not speak as a courtier wishing to spare me guilt,” Kael said solemnly.

Rommath’s gaze was penetrating, guileless; Kael could feel his old lover’s pulse fluttering within him, pressed against one another as they were. “I have all I have ever required right here,” he breathed into his ear, low and sensual. “Why should I be anything less than content? But if this is to be my night, then let it be _mine._ ”

Kael tightened his grip about Rommath’s waist, to gently tilt him backward; Rommath’s back arched effortlessly in lithe, agile grace, as his leg parted the slit of his chiton, and he lifted it high and bare, to press a bent knee against Kael’s waist, head thrown back to make his long braid dangle near to brush the floor. And as he did, Kael leaned forward into the movement to match him, their bodies in perfect, artful harmony.

For once, it mattered little to Kael that they were gathered within the Black Temple, with so many eyes upon them—Illidari or otherwise. When Kael raised back up with him, he pulled Rommath tightly against him by the waist in a vice grip, and slipped his tongue between Rommath’s lips, plunging into his mouth. Their fingers untangling, Kael reached with a now-free hand for the nape of Rommath’s neck, to cradle his head, savoring sweet cordial and heat upon his lips by turns. His other hand slipped into the back of Rommath’s chiton, caressing his flushed skin beneath the airy silk as he pressed a rock-hard bulge against Rommath’s lean and muscled thigh.

Gasping for air, Rommath trembled against him, his entire body taut like a bowstring, narrow angular eyes heavy and half-lidded with ravenous hunger. “What of discretion, my prince?” he said, with heavy breath against Kael’s neck, hot and sweet.

“What of it?” Kael replied, smirking. “Why shouldn’t the whole of Outland know just who its lord’s consort has always counted as his own?”

Perhaps Rommath had been right, that morning at the Sanctum; perhaps Illidan truly had driven Kael to recklessness he hadn’t felt since the heady days of his youth in Dalaran. If it was so, then it was simply one more thing Kael would have to thank him for.

Rommath’s parted lips and wanton, kajal-limned gaze were enough for anyone to be grateful for.

A great, winged shadow fell upon them both then; as though he were summoned like one of the demons, and with that shadow, the familiar _basso-profundo_ rumbling followed, settling in Kael’s bones like the satisfied purr of some great feline.

“Forgive me, Grand Magister, but may I cut in?” Illidan asked, with a polite incline of his head.

Rommath bowed low before him, graceful and subservient, his gold-laced braid falling before him. “I dare not refuse the Lord of Outland,” he said, in acquiescence, sinking to his knees.

If Kael had only suspected it before, or dismissed it as the wishful thinking of a lustful heart, there was no mistaking what happened; what passed between Illidan and Rommath in that moment, when his master reached out to bid his oldest friend rise, by leaning down to place a single talon beneath his chin. Rommath lifted his gaze, then, at Illidan’s silent bidding, and it was smoldering like the fire of the braziers.

Kael’s heart nearly stopped.

“Was that what I thought it was?” he asked Illidan, when Rommath took his leave of them.

“Hmm?” Illidan asked, a bit too innocently. Kael grinned, and took his outstretched hands, bowing before him—not the leader this time. Never with Illidan; with Illidan he was swept away, into powerful arms, and clung to him like a drowning man to flotsam.

It was a far slower, more stately ballad they danced to, ancient and Highborne. Even setting their customary roles aside, Kael would have had to follow Illidan’s lead, as the steps were totally unfamiliar. And lead he did, with exceptional finesse, cloven hooves gliding across the smooth stones in intricate, complex steps that Kael mirrored with practiced ease. This was not to say that Kael was precisely surprised by the skill and poise with which his master moved. For months, after all, Kael had watched Illidan fight in the elaborate style of the demon hunter, watched him execute what he could only deem a dance of destruction in all its dark and fluid complexity, upon the battlefield. For months, he’d watched him move through those forms upon the practice field, glaives and body in glorious harmony—it was one of the things that made Kael fall for him, the utter perfection of how he moved. And, for months, Kael had become quite familiar with just how nimble Illidan’s unusual body could be. 

Intimately so.

Still, it was something that filled Kael with a bit of awe, the way Illidan danced, passionate and sure. He wondered where he might have learned such a thing, common-born as he was, recalling Illidan’s words from hours earlier.

_I was attending Highborne fetes in Zin-Azshari before you were a glimmer in your forebears’ eyes._

They parted a moment, and the room spun for a moment through a curtain of gold as Illidan twirled him about; Kael leaned with his back against Illidan’s broad chest, and they swayed a moment, Kael breath hitching at the sensation of a firm, calloused hand drifting down his bare chest, perilously low, before Illidan twirled him once more, and swept him into his arms half off the floor, before setting him down.

“I only just told him this was his night, you know. You simply couldn’t let him upstage you, could you?” Kael laughed softly.

“No,” Illidan admitted, with a lopsided grin, fel eyes twinkling behind his blindfold. “Did you forget who I am?”

Kael’s laughter grew louder at that, and he pressed his brow into Illidan’s chest, shutting his eyes in a futile attempt to stifle it.

“How could I,” Kael said softly, once his mirth finally passed. 

“Then forgive me a moment of selfishness. I’ll make it up to you both,” Illidan said softly, by way of apology.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Kael said impishly, gazing up at him with affection. “Where did you learn to dance, anyway?” he asked suddenly. “You mentioned Highborne fetes…”

Illidan fell silent a moment, the glow flickering and dimming behind his blindfold, and for the first and only time during their dance, his steps grew uncertain, but only for a moment. And for a moment Kael feared he overstepped, picking inadvertently at yet another old wound. 

There were many, with Illidan Stormrage.

“My Lord Ravencrest,” Illidan finally answered, his voice low and soft. 

The name was familiar, yet not; Kael swore that he heard it once before, but not from Illidan. And not with such emotion.

“Lord Ravencrest?” Kael asked gently, but Illidan shook his head gently, waving the inquiry away with a dismissive flick of his great wings. 

“You said it yourself. This is Rommath’s night,” Illidan said. He raised his hands to cup Kael’s cheeks. “It grows long, and your time together grows shorter with it. Go. Be with him.”

A lump formed in Kael’s throat, which he swallowed down as best he could. His heart swelled. “Master…”

“It may be some time before you see him again,” Illidan said, his voice low and grave. “You’ll not want regrets, my _thero’shan._ ”

Kael knew that tone. There were a thousand stories etched between the lines of Illidan’s admonishments, and in the urgency of his lightly trembling touch. And there were a thousand questions hovering upon Kael’s smudged lips, but only one mattered to him as he recalled who smudged that carmine, as Illidan’s steps slowed and they stood still at last.

“Would you grant me one wish, then, master?”

“Anything.”

“Don’t make me choose between you this night. That would truly be a regret,” Kael said, his voice scarce more than a husky whisper. “Besides, you promised to make it up to us _both_ ,” he added with a smirk.

Illidan’s answering laughter was low and dark and wicked, and Kael was glad for the strength of his grip then, as he might well have quivered to jelly upon the flagstones of the Promenade at the very sound of that laughter. “Very well, _dalah’surfal_.” Illidan hunched down, squeezing him in a tight embrace. “I thought you’d never ask,” he added, rumbling into Kael’s ear.

For once it was Kael who blushed to the tips of his pointed ears, in spite of himself.

“Scoundrel,” he whispered back, with an affectionate smile.

“Betrayer, actually. But ‘Scoundrel’ has a nicer sound to it, I think,” Illidan said wryly. He planted a soft kiss upon the top of Kael’s head, then pulled away and turned to address the guests in a bellowing voice. “Gentles all, the doors of the Den are open to any who might seek its delights, provided Lady Shahraz’s strictures are honored. But I am afraid Prince Kael’thas and I must take our leave of you, for time does not linger, and the Grand Magister has a long journey before him.”

Rommath gazed questioningly at them both, from behind the bare and muscled shoulder of Lieutenant Thaladred; he’d not wanted for dance partners that night, the Grand Magister of Quel’Thalas, and all of his choosing. He loved his muscled warriors, after all, Kael thought to himself with a fond smile.

Illidan wrapped an arm about him then, and the other he extended toward Rommath in silent invitation.

The look on Rommath’s face was priceless; his eyes grew wide as saucers, and for a moment, just one hilarious moment, he stood gaping in Thaladred’s arms like a slack-jawed country lad. But he remembered himself then, and took his leave of his current partner with a polite nod and murmured apologies. Thaladred, for his part, bore it all in good humor. Grinning wickedly, the Eclipsion knight gave them both a cheeky little bow as Rommath swept past him.

Later, Kael would remember that as the precise moment when he determined that he liked Thaladred.

The Grand Magister of Quel’Thalas strode at a slow, stately pace to Illidan’s side with self-satisfied purpose, answering the summons of his liege-lord much like a smug peacock, and somehow retained his smugness as he bowed before him. What words they exchanged when Illidan bid Rommath to rise, and leaned forward to speak quietly into his ear, Kael did not know, but he did not need to; the naked yearning which simmered in his old friend’s eyes said it all.

Instead, Kael permitted himself a single glance back at Vashj, though he knew what he would see, and what guilt it would bring; he felt he owed her that much, after everything.

Her delicate features revealed nothing, but the single flicker of anguish in her level gaze when their eyes met pierced through him as though it were one of her arrows. Her ancient song of yearning echoed throughout his mind then, rising unbidden with the knot that formed in his throat.

_Oh, the things I’ll show you…_

_Would you have a wondrous sight?_

_The midday sun, at midnight…_

There were many regrets to be had that night, Kael thought. Let this be the only one, and let it die withered on his tongue to go unspoken for her sake.

He tore his eyes from her, praying turmoil did not show upon his own face. 

There would be other nights, if she willed it so. Kael could not help but believe that, after Illidan’s words in the bath. Vashj could have any night she so chose, when at last she was prepared to make that choice. His gaze fell upon the face of his oldest friend, alight with awe and flushed with desire.

This choice, this night, was Rommath’s.

As they left the Promenade in the great shadow of Illidan’s wings, Kael was only tangentially aware of the dozens of eyes upon the three of them. Only the heat of Rommath’s body beside him mattered, and the cold sweat of a hand clutching his own in a vice grip. 

The twisting hall which led back to the cavernous bedchamber Kael shared with Illidan seemed somehow longer than it ever had, as his heart pounded in his ears, punctuated by the echo of Illidan’s khorium-shod hooves against the black basalt stone.

The massive doors opened before the three, and the floodgates with them.

No longer forced to play the prince or the diplomat before his master’s armies and allies, it was the libertine Kael who kissed Rommath shamelessly upon the dancefloor that emerged once more inside the deepened shadows of the bedchamber, and with even more wanton abandon. In a furious blur, Kael shoved him against the closest wall, plunging his tongue deep inside his mouth with unabashed hunger, loosing his many hours of stifled lust—repressed from the first touch of a servile incubus in the bath—upon Rommath, who returned every ounce of it in kind. He wrapped his arms about Kael, clinging to him tightly, his breath hot and sweet and heavy as their tongues caressed hot and firm against each other, his body rising up off the wall to hook his leg about Kael’s waist as he did in their daring dance.

Kael groped with a trembling hand for Rommath’s chiton, finding the edge of the slit, and parted the silken fabric to squeeze his rear, tight and pert. By then they were grinding rigid heat into one other’s thighs, with desperate passion, and Kael moaned into Rommath’s mouth at the warm friction. He bit Rommath’s lower lip before his mouth and tongue trailed fierce kisses along his chiseled jawline, finding his throat; a low, keening gasp escaped it in response, when Kael’s teeth nipped at it. He suckled his way across Rommath’s neck with firm strokes of his tongue, half lifting him by his ass as he jerked his hips, rubbing himself feverishly against him.

The murky gloom around them ebbed then, and at the periphery of Kael’s vision, as he came up for air, he spied Illidan gesturing at the tallest candelabra. There was a familiar rush of arcane energy as the dozens of candles housed throughout the chamber came alight in a soft, dim glow. Illidan had no need of it, of course, not with his fel eyes and spectral sight; light meant nothing before the darkness of his cursed vision. 

A gift, then, offered with a knowing and seductive smile. 

Kael straightened, and led Rommath toward the long, plush divan in the furthest corner of the chamber, across from the bed, stripping off his own long mantle coat as he did. And as his hands slid beneath the shoulder strap of Rommath’s chiton, easing it down his arm, Kael trailed soft kisses to echo his caresses, down along his collarbone, the hollow of his throat, and the crimson runes swirled about his lean biceps. Silently, Kael thanked Illidan for his gift, as Rommath’s freshly inked skin glowed softly in the candlelight, and even in that dim russet glow, Kael could see it was exquisite work done, wrought upon the finest of canvasses.

A lump formed in his throat, unbidden, when he stripped Rommath to the waist and looked down to regard thew design etched upon the Grand Magister’s heart as it was was revealed in full. What Kael spied as a wing earlier in the night was, in fact, the crest of House Sunstrider, inked intricately in faintly shimmering tones of gold and crimson: Al’ar’s wings spread proudly, enfolding a blazing sun, with leaves of golden laurel clutched within her talons.

And yet…it did not end there. That familiar spray of golden laurel crowned a second, smaller sun, itself wreathed by a pair of crossed, crescent blades to form another crest, and one near as familiar to Kael as that of his own house: House Sunreaver. The symbolism was not lost upon him.

Rommath met his awestruck gaze with narrow, angular eyes bright and gleaming eerie fel green. “I believed it a fitting mark, my sun prince. It is true that you are the last of your line, and I grieve with you for it. I also share in it well, for I, too, am the last of mine. But so long as I draw breath, House Sunstrider will never be without a loyal Sunreaver to serve it,” he said with a quiet fierceness. He reached out, then, resting his palm upon Kael’s cheek, brushing the high bones with his fingertips, and whispered, “I swear it upon the Ashes of Al’ar, and those of my mother’s pyre: I am yours to the last, my love, and come what may.”

There were few things on life that could render the famously eloquent Kael’thas Sunstrider speechless; Rommath’s vow of undying devotion, spoken by candlelight and marked indelibly upon his very heart, was one of them. This, with such love in his touch, made Kael’s heart swell to bursting, and was near enough to move Kael to tears.

What had he ever done to deserve such a man?

Wordlessly, he met Rommath’s hand with his own, and answered him with tender lips pressed firmly against his knuckles. With no small amount of reverence, he reached up to loose Rommath’s ponytail, and with deft fingers slowly unraveled the braid, freeing that wealth of thick, black silk to let it fall unfettered to Rommath’s waist in a cascade of soft, loose waves, the golden threads lost and tangled among them, shimmering in the candlelight. Kael smoothed it fondly with gentle hands, relishing the sight of him for a moment; it was true that Kael had a weakness for the dark-haired, and one he could trace directly back to this particular dark-haired man, whom he had always believed the most beautiful of all sin’dorei.

Rommath smiled at him, and he grew weak. 

Gently, with none of the fevered urgency as before, Kael eased Rommath onto the silk cushions of the divan, onto his back, and bent down to part his lips once more. It was a single kiss, slow and deep and languid, before he withdrew. With full lips and an eager tongue, Kael traced lines down Rommath’s throat. His fingers idly toyed with the small hoops that pierced Rommath’s dark, brown nipples, round and stiff, and his mouth followed, catching the gold with his teeth with gentle tugging, the tip of his tongue darting between ring and flesh.

The soft, keening cry it elicited was exquisite, raising the gooseflesh on his skin. Driven on by it, Kael nipped at the hardened flesh with his teeth, suckling each nipple by turns, and Rommath whimpered and shuddered in delight beneath him. It only served to fan the flames of Kael’s desire, the way Rommath came alive at his touch, and it had been too long since he’d last savored it: Rommath, beautiful and yielding beneath him, his senses enflamed.

Truly, it had been so long since Kael had last known this kind of pleasure with Rommath. Far too long since a night marred by unfathomable grief, in the shadow of death upon the grimmest of reunions, their bodies entwined in a desperate rebuke of the pain that threatened to devour them both.

This night, before they were to part once more, the only shadow cast upon them was borne from great, leathery wings, spread wide before the divan.

“ _Dalah’surfal,_ ” Illidan said softly, and Kael felt his swollen cock grow even harder at that low, _basso-profundo_ rumbling, sultry and dark. He glanced up to see his master looming over them both, leaned forward to grip the low slung back of the divan with talons dug into the wood, his own long black hair falling forward, grazing against Kael’s bare skin.

“Yes, master?” Kael asked. As he did, he gently pulled Rommath back up, and held him, stroking his hair and back. His eyes openly traced the length of Illidan’s chiseled body, lingering on the enormous bulge straining against his dark _hakama_ breeches, visible even through the thick _obi_ which belted them.

“Do with him what you will. But remember who rules within this chamber,” Illidan replied firmly. He rose up and straightened, backing away slowly, then stretched out like an indolent cat upon the massive bed, resting back against the small horde of silken pillows. “I will have my due,” he added, removing the _obi_ , throwing it carelessly onto the floor as the imprint of his massive, rigid cock was clear against his pants.

Rommath bit his lip, whimpering against Kael’s neck.

“Always, master,” Kael purred, with a demure incline of his head. He gently grabbed a fistful of Rommath’s hair, pulling his head back. “And what _shall_ I do with you, I wonder?” he mused aloud.

He moaned himself then, as he felt Rommath’s impossibly soft lips press into his neck, suckling a moment before tracing a warm line up to his ear with a wet and pliant tongue, licking up to near the point before drawing back down. 

“Let me serve you, my prince. It has been too long,” Rommath whispered into Kael’s ear, his voice choked thick with lust.

Kael purred his assent and glanced up, over Rommath’s shoulder, to spy a masked gaze, dim and covetous, affixed firmly upon their direction. Propped up against the pillows, his massive wings spread wide, Illidan watched and waited, the corner of his mouth curved into a lustful smile.

So be it, Kael thought.

He smiled wickedly at Rommath and sat straight with his back resting against the low back of the divan, removing his soft slippers, and allowed Rommath to finish disrobing him. Rommath unlaced the stays on Kael’s jodhpurs, then slowly pulled them down, lowering himself to his knees as he did. And when Rommath gently tugged them off entirely, stripping Kael bare, he slid his hands up Kael’s calves, stroking his legs up to his thighs, kneading taut muscles with firm and loving hands. Rommath was never one to rush such things, content to take his time; and Kael was content to savor it, stretching out on his back to sprawl upon the silk cushions of the divan. And though Rommath was no incubus made for pleasure to his blood and bone, he was every bit as skilled in its execution. It was a homecoming, this, for them both. 

Rommath’s silky hair trailed threads of gold as his head lowered its way down Kael’s body. He felt the merest graze of teeth against his nipples, white against hardened brown, and needed no golden rings to enhance the sharp sting of pleasure that shot up his spine. 

No one knew Kael’s body the way Rommath did, not even Illidan; for no one else had known it for so very long, and it was with the ease of that long, practiced memory that Rommath’s hungry lips and tongue and graceful hands found every spot that drove Kael mad with want, that set his rock hard cock to twitching as it brushed against his belly.

And then Rommath slipped it into his mouth, impossibly soft lips brushing against the tip and suckling it, before taking him down inch by inch to near the back of his throat. The pleasure was immeasurable: slick, wet heat enveloping him, Kael felt his own eyes roll back into his head, and his hands knotted into fists, clutching at Rommath’s hair, virtually melting into his tongue. He rose up off the plush cushions with every stroke of Rommath’s lips, grinding into his mouth until he was nearly fucking it, delicious pressure building and building to a fever pitch. And he felt himself losing himself in that rhythm, in the friction; Rommath’s hands massaged his sac and it was all he could do not to lose himself entirely, clamping down on his lip. Blessed Light but he wanted to shoot down Rommath’s throat, and nearly did; but he wanted somewhat more, too, and pulled himself back from the precipice with all the discipline he had.

“Ah, Rom,” Kael groaned, gently tugging Rommath’s head back, by a fistful of hair. “Wait. Not yet.”

Rommath’s eyes opened at Kael’s sudden admonition, his lids heavy. With herculean self control, Kael gently pulled out of Rommath’s mouth, and his old love gazed up at him with pleading eyes gleaming with undisguised yearning.

“Take me,” Rommath whispered, his voice hollow and thick with desire, hands stroking Kael’s cock.

He did not need to be asked twice.

They shifted their bodies, swapping positions upon the divan, and he turned Rommath onto his stomach, nearly tearing off his rumpled chiton. Now it was Kael’s turn to explore the length of his lover’s outstretched body with lips, hands, and tongue that had never forgotten it, even in all the time they’d been apart. It was Rommath’s ass Kael had always desired most of all, taut and shapely, and he paid it special attention, kneading and squeezing his cheeks by turns, administering a playful, stinging smack now and then. Spreading him open, Kael’s fingers glided in light, teasing strokes along the sensitive inner flesh of his cleft, and his tongue followed, drawing wet circles about the familiar entrance before slipping inside. At this, Rommath gasped, his breath hitching, and he sighed in delight.

When Kael found that most sensitive of spots inside, stroking it with his tongue, Rommath’s sighs turned to pleading moans, and he writhed beneath him, squirming against the divan. Kael eschewed the familiar cantrip for once, instead rising up to reach for a small glass decanter on the nearby shelf. With one hand, he spread Rommath open wider; with the other, he poured the oil in a slow trickle down upon his entrance. It was possessed of a rich, heady scent of musk, and Kael worked it inside Rommath, fingering him with slow, languorous caresses even as he dipped the decanter and let the warm oil drip onto his cock. He set the container back upon the shelf, still working Rommath, and slickened himself from root to blunt tip; as he did, he spied movement in his periphery, and turned his head just so. Illidan lay facing them, outstretched on his side, with an elbow set against his wing to prop his horned head aloft. Wearing naught but his mantle, he was stroking himself slowly and wholly without shame.

Somehow, Kael managed to grow even harder at the sight of it, and swooned in a brief moment of lightheadedness, astonishing even himself. He brushed the tip of his cock against Rommath’s waiting entrance, teasing a bit with circular motions. His eyes never left Illidan when he penetrated Rommath at last, to his old lover’s gasping pleasure. Kael began to rock back and forth, sliding in and out of him, slick and hard and hot, twisting with him so that they half sprawled on their sides, Kael’s leg hooked about Rommath’s thigh. One hand fondled a pierced nipple, pinching it and tugging at the ring, and Kael slid the other down his chest, gripping Rommath’s cock with his oil-slickened fist, jerking it up and down the shaft.

And Kael’s eyes, heavy-lidded, were upon Illidan the entire time.

He had never believed himself to hold exhibitionist tendencies, in truth. From the time Kael first knew the pleasures of the flesh as a lad, discretion was paramount. He was the High Prince of Quel’Thalas, after all, and could afford the appearance of impropriety even less than the average quel’dorei. Even at his small Sunlit Court in Dalaran, his wanton pleasure seeking was done behind closed doors, and his lovers were chosen for their discretion as much as their beauty and wit. Oh, he danced the blade’s edge as much as he dared, but never crossed that verboten line. And once or twice, he had taken two lovers in tandem. But never had he…performed, as such, for one. To so nakedly expose his passions would have been a manner of vulnerability unseemly for a prince of the quel’dorei.

However, Kael was no longer a quel’dorei, desperate to preserve face at all costs, ofttimes fighting against his very nature to do so. He was the Sun Prince, Lord of the Sin’dorei, who dwelled with the Lord of Outland—a man who cared little for inhibition or taboo, and rebelled against most any that had ever been placed upon him. Kael could not deny how hot his blood ran with Illidan’s eyes upon him—and, mercifully, did not have to. With Illidan there were no such constraints upon his deepest desires, and indeed, he surrendered to them gladly.

Kael knew that Illidan truly saw naught but writhing, brilliant-hued shapes by his cursed vision. But he also knew that sight mattered little to a man with such preternaturally heightened senses—one who could hear the rustling of writhing bodies against silk cushions every bit as well as he could the moans of delight and Kael’s thighs smacking against Rommath’s ass every time he drilled it with his cock. Illidan would have his due, indeed, an offering of his own. 

That ravenous gaze locked upon him as Kael fucked Rommath goaded them both in ways he never dreamed possible. Kael’s eyes never left his master as he bucked against Rommath, plunging in and out of him, hands and cock pleasuring him in sensuous rhythm, matching Illidan’s rhythm across the room. Rommath’s breath grew ragged, his moans louder and more insistent; he stiffened against Kael with a wordless cry and arched his back, spilling hot seed onto his hand and thighs. It was enough to pull Kael over the edge with him, and he pierced him a final time, shuddering against his back, shooting a torrent of his own inside him as he, too, found blessed release at last, spots blinking before his vision.

Rommath leaned back, his lips finding Kael’s for a long, languorous kiss.

“ _Dalah’surfal_ ,” Illidan purred, deep and low, shaking Kael out of his bemused reverie. Illidan’s fist made a death grip upon the base of his engorged cock; a small spray of drops gleamed upon the broad tip of it in the candlelight like morning dew. It was enough to make Kael’s racing heart skip a beat, despite everything.  

“Yes, master?” Kael said, his voice trembling.

“I would have my tribute,” Illidan said, with an edge to his tone.

“Your will is my command, master,” Kael said. He gently nudged Rommath, and together they rose off the divan; Kael led him across to the massive bed. “I present you the rarest of sin’dorei treasures.” 

Rommath, bless him, played his part to the hilt, demurely lowering his eyes with a scarcely concealed smile, as Kael boosted him up. He rested in the space between Illidan’s legs, sitting back on his heels, with his knees spread, and his hands clasped before him in a gesture of submission. “I hope you find me pleasing, my lord,” Rommath said.

“I do, indeed. Magic burns within you like an incandescent flame, young magister,” Illidan remarked, as he reached out to Rommath, beckoning him closer, onto his lap. His strong hands caressed Rommath’s flushed skin, damp with sweat and glowing in the aftermath of pleasure, exploring where his eyes could not. Illidan chuckled in sudden amusement, as his fingers found the golden rings upon Rommath’s chest. “You’ve been pierced like an eredar,” he mused aloud.

“A passing fashion amongst our people, my lord,” Rommath said, with some difficulty; his breath hitched with Illidan’s curious touch, and Kael began to suspect those earrings rendered him even more sensitive there than he was before. 

“It suits you,” Illidan said, idly toying with the rings as he did. Truly, Rommath’s words were stolen altogether, when Illidan’s thumbs worked his nipples over, talons brushing against them, tugging gently at the rings in much the same way Kael did, and the magister was reduced to soft, whimpering moans. Kael bit his lip at the sight of it. “You seem distracted, Kael,” Illidan chuckled.

“It is a distracting sight to behold, master,” Kael replied with an impish grin.

Illidan’s arms wrapped about Rommath’s back and he pulled him down toward his eager mouth, catching each of the rings with his teeth one after the other; Rommath bit his lip, but soft moans of pleasure still escaped his throat. “Do you envy him, Kael?” Illidan asked, quirking one of his long brows at Kael, as his hands slid down Rommath’s back to squeeze his ass..

Kael could not lie then, not even for loveplay’s sake. “Yes,” he murmured, his mouth growing moist and the hairs at the back of his neck rising, at the sight of Illidan’s tongue drawing lazy circles around Rommath’s nipples, suckling and biting them by turns. Kael felt his blood start to race again, the warmth rising in his cheeks.

Illidan nudged Rommath up, planting a kiss against the tattoo on his heart, before glaring at Kael. “Consider it due punishment for taking what was mine, _boy_ ,” Illidan said with a snarl. He snatched Kael’s wrist with that speed that never ceased to surprise, and slipped Kael’s stained, sticky fingers into his mouth one by one, licking them clean of Rommath’s spent pleasure; Kael shut his eyes at the sensation of tongue and sharp fangs pressing against his fingertips, hot breath dancing along his knuckles. 

“My deepest apologies, master,” Kael said, whimpering. He lowered his head, chastised, his tone suitably contrite. Though his head remained bowed, he stole a glance up at Rommath.

Rommath, who was silent, watching the exchange with curious eyes full of wonder. A pleasant shiver tingled down Kael’s spine. Strangely, the sting of humiliation at Illidan’s rebuke stirred his blood as much as his fierce mouth upon his hand, and made his heart pound in his ears; even stranger that it was somehow all the sweeter to him, knowing Rommath had witnessed it. 

Kael had never exposed his submissive side so thoroughly and so brazenly to anyone beside Illidan. Rommath knew that Kael was a man of versatile tastes, but his courtier’s sense of propriety would never permit him to command his prince; nor would his own desires, which ran decidedly contrary. When Kael played the submissive, it was always with other partners, and never to the same degree. Truly, Illidan had plumbed the depths of Kael’s soul and coaxed things from it he did not even realize were there.

And never had another, even Rommath, been privy to the hidden layers in Kael’s utterance of the word “master”, in such a fashion, or these secret games. All of this added another surprising layer of spice to the illicit thrill of it all, for Kael, as much as taking Rommath as Illidan watched. Tension slowly returned to his relaxed muscles.

“You vex me, _thero’shan,_ ” Illidan said, tightening his grip about Kael’s wrist, talons digging into his flesh. His other hand idly wandered across Rommath’s body, groping and squeezing him. Kael could not tell if Illidan’s anger were feigned, or merely another part of the game, but it mattered little.

Regardless, Illidan did wonderful things, when he was angry.

Kael contorted himself into a bow, prostrating before Illidan, his forehead pressed against the dark sheets of the bed. “I beg you, allow me to make amends, master,” he pled, his heart racing. 

“Very well. Let your princeling add to the tribute, magister,” Illidan said, grabbing a fistful of Rommath’s hair with his free hand to pull him down for a hungry kiss. He released them both from his grasp, then, adding somewhat nonchalantly, “please me well, sin’dorei, and I may yet grant you all your hearts’ desires.”

Kael and Rommath exchanged wicked glances at one another, and they silently made accord to honor the command in tandem, bending all their skill gladly to the task. Illidan sought Rommath’s mouth again, parting his lips with an eager tongue, as he kneaded his ass; Kael’s own mouth found Illidan’s exposed neck, hungrily kissing it, and trailing his penitent tongue across Illidan’s collarbone, nibbling gently with his teeth. He planted a thousand tiny kisses along his pectorals, tracing the fel brands etched upon them with his own tongue, and sucked at a large, black nipple, while Rommath echoed his movements on the other side, content as always to follow his prince’s lead.

Illidan’s breath was slow and steady, but his heart was pounding quick as an orcish war drum as Kael and Rommath licked and kissed their way around his chiseled body, down the length of his rippling abdomen, to the prize that waited between his eagerly spreading legs.

It must good to be the Lord of Outland, Kael thought wryly, smiling against Illidan’s enormous thigh muscle, and planted a kiss there. He shot Rommath a sidelong glance; Rommath returned the look with the most licentious grin Kael had ever seen him wear, and then Illidan groaned in unalloyed pleasure as they set their tongues to stroking his cock, licking him clean.

They worked in glorious unison: where prince held him by the base, magister took him down his throat. They sucked Illidan by turns with eager lips, hands twisting up the length of his shaft where tongues followed in quick, measured strokes, every blessed inch of him worshiped with abandon. Once, their tongues met by his tip, brushing against each other, and they dared steal a quick kiss. Kael quickened at it once more, his own cock swelling hard again at the salty taste of Illidan’s sweat upon Rommath’s lips, at once familiar and mingled to something new and intoxicating. And caught between them, Illidan could do little but gasp and moan, rising his hips up in desperation, slipping inside each of their mouths, his hands tangled in a wealth of black and gold hair.

It was heady stuff to Kael to be sure, having this power over Illidan. But it seemed even more so that night, sharing in it with Rommath, watching his master writhe beneath his oldest love. There truly _was_ something intoxicating in this mingling of passions between those men he lusted for most; as he slipped Illidan’s sac into his mouth, he rubbed himself against the coverlet, unable to control himself. And he glanced over in time to see one of Rommath’s hands slip down beneath him, his arm moving up and down, moans of pleasure muffled by Illidan’s cock in his mouth. Kael was not the only one who found his desire renewed, evidently.

Illidan must have noticed it, or else grown too impatient with their work, as he peeled the two of them off him suddenly. Mindful of his command, Kael shifted on the bed, ducking beneath an errant wing, and allowed his master to seize his tribute in full. Rommath was shoved roughly onto his stomach, and Illidan straddled the back of his legs, lightly clawing his way down the magister’s back until he reached that shapely ass Kael so adored, and seemed to fall in love with it all the same, squeezing and kneading it, smacking it with a loud, hard swat of his palm, spreading it open to tease him.

Kael whispered the old incantation that time, and slid his newly glistening hand up and down his own cock as he watched Illidan bend down to tease him with his tongue before it disappeared inside Rommath’s cleft for a long and sensual kiss. The prince squirmed at the sight of it, his grip upon himself tightening, hardening stiffer at the delightful sounds Rommath made.

His talons retracted, Illidan resorted to the old cantrip as well, swirling conjured slick about Rommath’s stretched rim, working with tongue and fingers in kind. Rommath was hardly a novice—and Kael wasn’t precisely small, himself—but Illidan was something else entirely to behold, and it would take more than a round of pleasure from Kael to make the way clear, so to speak. If Rommath could find that place beyond pain, where it melted into transcendence, he would be all right, and Kael believed it so. But there was his thorny pride to consider, the magister’s arrogance. He would do anything to please Kael, to prove himself, even if it meant he suffered needlessly.

Kael stopped pleasuring himself, and gently took Rommath’s flushed face into his slick hands.

“Don’t let your pride get the best of you,” he said, by way of warning. “Tell us, if he is too much for you to bear.”

“I can bear it,” Rommath said insistently, his voice choked thick with lust, and nuzzled the palm of Kael’s hand.

Nonetheless, when Illidan reached beneath him, hauling him up onto his hands and knees, Kael still held Rommath's face within his hands, whispering endearments. He meant every one of them; there was nothing more beautiful to Kael in that moment than Rommath, prone and quivering with desire, awaiting pleasure at Illidan’s powerful hands.

And Illidan, for all his posturing, took the greatest of care when he eased the swollen, slickened tip into his ass. Rommath winced, sucking air between grit teeth, and Kael smoothed a hand across his back, stroking it in comfort. Illidan slipped inside him, inch by inch, until he was sheathed to the hilt, and rested there a moment, still as a statue. 

“By the Light,” Rommath swore, gasping for air as though he were drowning, his eyes grown wide and standing with unshed tears. 

“Rom?” Kael asked, taking him by the chin; his old love’s long lashes fluttered against his fingertips, as Kael lightly brushed the tears away.

Illidan spread his hands, massaging Rommath’s lower back, and his face lost its domineering mask for a moment, his expression flickering to concern. “Do you wish me to continue, love?” he asked.

Rommath blinked fiercely, flashing teeth at Kael in a tight smile. “Yes, my lord,” he answered, with ragged breath. “Oh, _yes_.”

And so Illidan did.

Kael leaned back, taking full advantage of the warm spot Illidan’s body left at the top of the bed, and sank into the silken pillows, watching the carnal dance before him unfold in rapt fascination. Illidan, clutching Rommath’s hips for leverage, eased out of him slowly before slipping inside once more. Again and again, at a torturously slow pace, Illidan rode him, his head lowered in pleasure, long, thick hair falling like a dark, glistening curtain to obscure his rapturous face. 

And Rommath moaned like the courtesans in the Den, shameless and wanton, bucking back against Illidan with every thrust, his slender fingers curling in the dark sheets. It was the most beautiful, maddening thing Kael had ever seen, and his cock grew ever harder in his hand as he watched them in equal parts envy and ache, stroking himself. Rommath lifted his eyes to meet Kael’s in a gaze clouded by naked hunger. He licked his lips, curling his tongue in a beckoning gesture of brazen invitation.

Chastised by his master or not, Kael refused to be denied what he so desperately craved, and what was offered so freely. He slid down the bed, crossing the short distance between them, and shoved his cock into Rommath’s mouth. Kael slipped his hand into Rommath’s tangled black hair and forced his prone lover’s head down, to thrust deeper down his throat. Were he not lost to the sensation of heat and friction, Kael would have been surprised that Illidan said nothing to gainsay it. Perhaps he was well-pleased, after all, by the notion of Rommath sucking him off again. But Kael leaned back, rolling his hips with his hand against the back of Rommath’s head, sprawling and content to watch him caught between the two of them, and grunting in equal parts pleasure at the lips upon his cock, and the anticipation of retribution from his master.

Illidan simply lifted his chin, shrouded by his own wealth of glistening blue-black hair, and the corners of his mouth curved into a wicked smile as he pounded harder into Rommath.

They found a rhythm, the three of them: Illidan riding Rommath, bucking and surging forward with slow, hard thrusts, and Kael matching him, rising up from the bed to grind into Rommath’s mouth. It was a slow, languid fuck from end to end. The best kind, to Kael, in all its indulgent hedonism, and it was a feast for his eyes to watch, goading him to pump Rommath’s mouth all the harder. It was to Rommath’s eternal credit that he neither slowed his pace nor stuttered, regardless of the unmistakable pleasure he took in being taken so by Illidan. He gripped Kael in his hand all the harder, working his shaft with lips and throat muscles. He gleefully took the both of them inside him, at both ends, in lustful abandon. He would be no less than a perfect vessel for his prince and sovereign lord, a tribute gift for them both. Kael hooked his leg over Rommath’s shoulder, throwing his head back, melting into the heat and friction of those soft lips suckling him.

And Kael tensed, pleasure dancing along his spine, that delicious pressure building again, building…soon, quite soon, it would be too much for him to bear, and he—

“No!” Illidan barked, yanking Rommath’s head back by the hair; the air beneath Kael grew horrifically cold then, as that warm and yielding mouth was taken away, and Rommath’s hand grew still upon the base of his shaft. “Deny him. He has not yet earned it. Let him suffer!”

It was a petulant growl Kael made in response, glaring at Illidan in bitter frustration all too unfeigned, but the denial set his body aflame nonetheless. The denial of his climax, and with it, the reminder that he was not truly in control in this bedchamber, not even when being sucked off by his most loyal courtier, left him reeling with renewed lust. It was a manic grin he could feel spreading across his own lips, even as his blood boiled. Kael cursed his master, even as he cursed himself for never doing this before.

And by then, Rommath could not have disobeyed Illidan’s command even had he wanted to, for he was well and truly lost to his own pleasure, reduced grunting and moaning against Kael’s thigh, his grip upon his prince’s cock faltering with every thrust Illidan made inside him.

Illidan’s groans grew louder, and the fel light flickered more brightly behind his blindfold. His pace suddenly increased, his hand slipped around Rommath to take his cock and pump it into his fist. And he was changing, shifting slowly before Kael’s eyes. Kael had been too long with Illidan not to recognize the signs of it, in his slowing breath, in the way his voice, ragged and grunting in lust, plunged into that lowest register, one no mortal ever reached. It happened, on occasion, that the wellspring of demonic power within Illidan was roused by his pleasure, and he wholly succumbed to it.

It seemed now was such an occasion.

When Rommath cried out at last, Illidan did not even seem to notice, not even when he shot seed out onto his hand. So lost was he, on the verge of transformation. With a final, sharp thrust, he grunted loud, his leathery wings flaring with his own climax, and Kael nearly followed him at the sight of it.

He tore himself from Rommath, shunting him to the side of the bed like a limp rag doll. Illidan sat still there, resting back on his haunches, savoring the taste of Rommath’s tribute upon his fingers. And if Kael had not known before that the demonic energies within his master were stirring feverishly, he knew it then, when he saw that Illidan was not sated, despite the evidence of his pleasure which dripped in rivulets down the back of Rommath’s inner thighs. Not sated in the least; that massive cock was still as hard as the moment they’d both begun to suck it.

“Kael’thas,” Illidan said, low and dark, caressing his shaft.

“Please, master,” Kael begged, his heart racing, blood burning like fire in his veins.

Shadows gathered about him, from within him, and his fel brands were set all aglow. Illidan reached up and tore the blindfold from his eyes, revealing the glowing fel iron within scorched sockets, blazing emerald fire that burned all the brighter within that darkness. Blackened wings beat in a slow rhythm, silencing the beating of Kael’s heart within his pointed ears. Once more, Kael was put to mind of the frescos in the baths, and the carvings of demonic vice within. He felt somewhat like a small hare caught in the gaze of some great, looming predator.

And he was harder than he’d ever been.

Illidan lunged forward and pounced on Kael, his shadowy form of deepest violet nigh unto black weighing down upon him, threatening to suffocate Kael as he reached beneath him. It was no earthly language he spoke then, as his deep voice with its sinister echo spoke the incantation directly into Kael’s pointed ear, and Kael felt the slickness spreading beneath him, inside him, fingers roughly spreading him open, the blunt head probing for his lower entrance.

Kael did not need to understand Demonic to know that the incantation had stopped, and what Illidan breathed into his ear then were vile depravities, though no less mundane. He could hear it in his very tone, and it was driving him mad. 

Suddenly, his legs were forced onto Illidan’s winged shoulders, hooked for leverage, and he cried out when Illidan pierced Kael deep in one hard thrust. Illidan raised his arms and braced them against the headboard, thrusting hard and deep and fast, ramming into Kael without mercy.

Kael’s fingers curled about Illidan’s horns in a death grip, and he held on for dear life. Hot tears gathered unbidden at the corner of his eyes with each sharp thrust. The pain was undeniable, but so too was the pleasure, commingling freely in a thrilling dance until Kael did not know where one sensation ended and the other began. He found that place, dragged there mercilessly by this demon that wore his lover’s shape, but the demon and the kaldorei were one and the same; and the proof of it was found in his limber body bending, yielding as Illidan pressed down against his thighs, and found his panting lips to part them with a blackened tongue. He never broke his rhythm, either, thrusting hard and fast even as they kissed, and Kael was given the reminder that all of this was done in love.

And then, when Illidan rose back up, Kael felt a second mouth upon him—by the Light—a sin’dorei mouth with its luscious pout, not against his mouth but steaming hot breath and slick tongue curling about his shaft, lips sucking his cock down into his throat for a third time, and harder than the last, and Kael cried out for mercy he knew would not find.

For there was no mercy to be had, from either of them: neither demon, nor magister. Kael lost himself, surrendered himself wholly to his lovers with everything he was, lost himself to lips and claws and cock, heat and pain and delirious pleasure. It was incoherent, the Thalassian oath he screamed when he succumbed in the end, long and ragged, as Rommath milked him for every last drop of seed, till he was dry and limp and wrung for every ounce of pleasure. Somewhere, at the far edge of his dim consciousness, he heard Illidan echo his cry—an oath to Elune in some odd, delirious mixture of Eredun, Orcish, and Kalnassian—and felt a ripple of energy wash over his spent body.

When Kael opened his eyes at last, Illidan was himself again, if a bit weary, and tenderly kissing Rommath. They kissed by turns, the three of them; not for arousal’s sake, as all were most thoroughly spent, but in that manner of satisfied exhaustion. 

The emptiness Kael felt when Illidan pulled away gave him a sudden pang, but it was soothed when Illidan fell back onto the bed, with a long, deep sigh of utter contentment. He pulled Rommath and Kael close against him, his great wings enfolding them in a tight embrace. They lay there for some time, legs tangled together, safe in that dark cocoon, as Illidan whispered soft endearments to them both, stroking their tangled hair.

“You were magnificent, my heart,” Illidan said, and pressed his lips softly against Kael’s sweat-soaked brow. “I’ll send for Shahraz, if you require aid.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Kael said, lightly shaking his head with a tired smile. “It’s a gift of Al’ar that I heal so quickly, remember? Though I never knew it would be so tested, even by you.”

“Nor did I,” Rommath agreed, with a light laugh; it warmed Kael’s heart to hear it again, that gentle happiness that came over his love when he was flush in the aftermath of lovemaking. “Is it always like this, with the two of you? I don’t think I should want to leave, now.”

Illidan laughed himself, at that, free and unfettered, and more than a little smug, which made Kael’s smile brighter. “Sometimes. And I will truly miss you more than I could have known,” he answered. “I meant what I said, at dinner,” he added.

Even in the dim candlelight, Kael could see Rommath’s skin turn crimson. “I—thank you, Lord Illidan,” Rommath stammered, turning his face to bury it in Illidan’s tattooed shoulder.

“Oh? What was that?” Kael asked. Illidan smiled at him.

“Only that you were fortunate to count him as a boon companion, and that his devotion to you was admirable,” Illidan replied. He smiled a bit sheepishly. “That I envy your bond, too. Nonetheless, it pleases me to see those ancient Highborne ideals have lived on, in the sin’dorei. There was much to admire in those ideals, despite Azshara’s folly.”

Illidan had the soul of a romantic, of a surety. Kael had long since discovered this about his love, yet it still surprised him. His heart swelled when Illidan stroked Rommath’s back, smoothing his hair. There was always that paradox of raw fury and aching tenderness within him; it was one of the reasons Kael had fallen so madly in love with Illidan.

“Rom, I meant what _I_ said, the other week, when last we spoke at the Sanctum,” Kael said, reaching across Illidan’s massive chest to caress Rommath’s damp cheek. “No one could ever replace you. And when you return to Quel’Thalas, you will bear a piece of my heart with you.”

Perhaps it was the aftermath of their intense tryst that left him feeling a bit vulnerable, but Rommath whimpered against Illidan, and Kael thought he was fighting back a different manner of tears then.

“Ah, Kael,” Rommath sighed, rubbing at his eyes with a trembling hand. “I don’t want to go. But I must, so I will.” He shifted a bit in the curve of Illidan’s arm, gazing up at him. “My lord? You said you’d grant me my heart’s desire, should I please you. I know it was loveplay, but I would truly ask a favor of you, if you would be so kind.”

“Of course, Rommath,” Illidan said. The corner of his mouth quirked into a faint, mischievous smile. “I _am_ pleased, after all.”

Rommath blushed again, and flashed a quick grin, but his expression turned grave within an instant. “Kael and I have always had an understanding. I place no claim upon my prince, and never have. But I have never seen another hold his heart so tightly within their grasp as you. And trust, I would not dare gainsay it, even were you not the Lord of Outland and our savior. I have only ever wanted Kael to know happiness. But I would ask that you cherish his heart, and guard it always. It is more precious than any gem a Nexus-Prince of the ethereals could give you. He is our light, and our hope, and—” Rommath paused, his breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed hard. “—And mine. Take care of him, my lord.”

“You needn’t even ask, gentle magister,” Illidan said softly. He planted a final, tender kiss upon Rommath’s lips. “For he is also mine,” Illidan added, squeezing Kael tighter within the strength of his embrace.

Rommath smiled, nestling back against Illidan, his eyes shutting in blissful repose, content with the answer, and seemed more at peace than he ever had, since the decision was made for him to depart Outland. 

And Kael clung tightly to Illidan, silently thanking the Light he only half believed in that he knew such love, from his oldest paramour, to his newest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Vashj's song, for the curious, is the Faith and the Muse cover of "Willow's Song", from the classic 1973 horror film "The Wicker Man". Monica Richards' vocals sound *exactly* the way I imagine Vashj sings.
> 
> 2) I know WoW calls the night elf language "Darnassian", but that never made a lick of sense to me for a number of reasons, and at this point in the story's timeline Darnassus doesn't even exist yet anyway. So I call it Kalnassian, after kaldorei.


End file.
